


Above Hoarded Gold

by tenpointson



Series: The Calamity is Calling [3]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Injury, By the Three Sheik has a Mouth, Chronic Illness, Classism, Cultural Differences, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Institutionalized Violence, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized racism, Male Sheik (Legend of Zelda), Minor Character Death, Multi, NPC use and abuse, New Relationship, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Self-Discovery, Slang, Suicidal Thoughts, Survival Sex Work, long fic is long, manual sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29038386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenpointson/pseuds/tenpointson
Summary: Third Part of the Calamity is Calling series, a Modern Zelda AU! This will hopefully logically make sense, but for little things like characterizations, world-building specifics like the time, setting, and relationships it is highly recommended you read the first two parts. Begins slightly after part two finished.
Relationships: Link/Malon (Legend of Zelda), Link/Malon/Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Link/Sheik (Legend of Zelda), Link/Tetra (Legend of Zelda), Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Sheik & Zelda (Legend of Zelda)
Series: The Calamity is Calling [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1061117
Comments: 25
Kudos: 13





	1. A Few Daze Later

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOOOO BOY, PART 3!  
> This will be the longest (to date, oh Goddesses please save me when I started this I had the vague idea that this would be an introspective Modern!Sheik one-shot help) part of The Calamity is Calling story line. I have no idea how long that will be, but…long. Like, long, long. I also have had some life stuff happen, so I cannot promise updates to this particular story as steadily as I could for the previous two installments, but I can guarantee in-universe shenanigans every two weeks for at least a couple months.  
> That being said, I’m so glad you’ve stuck around! Or just found this and have read this far! (As of this chapter, that’s 375,753 words, congratulations, you’re awesome!)  
> The good news is that this installment WILL be addressing some of the issues that the previous two arcs introduced, from little things like Link’s bad habit of assuming the best of people and Kaya’s desperate levels of touch-and-actual-starvation to idk maybe doing something about the ongoing resurgence of the Calamity possibly.  
> The bad news is that this installment WILL be addressing some of the issues that the previous two arcs introduced, and that means more angst, but like, there be comfort in them there hurt hills and a happy(ish) ending at the end of the road so, uh, yeah. Enjoy the journey?  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheik Kaya Lurelin, M, 24, wakes up alone in the trauma ward of a hospital in Sabak, Gerudo, Hyrule. P.O. Box OW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I will be tagging each chapter with Trigger and Content warnings specific to that chapter. If you see something that is unlabeled but think should have a warning, boop me and I will fix it! So…  
> TW: I’ll be gentle…for this first chapter.  
> CW: Medical Trauma, Medical Procedures, Narcotics, Confinement, Presumptive Consent, Mild Blood, Public Nudity, Language, Pain, Mild Panic Attack, Dissociation, The Vast Expanse of Grasping One’s Own Mortality  
> Fuck Count: 30
> 
> Extra long chapter to make up for how short the last chapter of Unleavened was.

So, there I was, breathing. Minding my own business and trying not to be noticed. Just have to stay completely still, keep my head down, eyes closed, and do my ass-bleeding best not to whimper. Every time I do, my ribs _ache_ , which makes me want to cough, which hurts even _more_ , and the last time I did it the nurses all tried to help, all at once. Forgetting, in their rush to fucking touch me as much as they fucking could, that my skin isn’t naturally a toasted marshmallow – both in color and in swelling – but instead a smooth, even caramel.

_Was_ a smooth, even caramel beneath the markings, before the burns and bruising and blood made it more molted than a ten-thousand year old Dragon. Not that I registered it at the time, but…holy Golden Goddesses on a dildo-pogo stick _fuck_. I _know_ what the arrays on the jars of lotion, the bedding, the ceiling, the floor, and the walls mean. The monitors. The Runes. The Charms. I’m not blind. Even without a mirror, I just have to look. I can’t help but look. Can’t _stop_ looking.

_Most_ of it that I can see reflected in the shiny plastic sheeting and the plexi-glass windows beyond – without moving my head much and having that hurt like my brain is trying to give birth to a whole hydromelon between my eyes – is back to normal… _now_. I _think_ it’s all real, but the refractions of reflections on warped, non-reflective surfaces don’t really…

Ow. Ow. Ow. _Stop moving_ , Kaya. You don’t _really_ need to breathe so deeply, do you?

There we go. Keep it _down_. Breathe, but shallowly.

See, you’re fine. Ish.

At least the first degree burns have healed over, and the second degree burns have left behind only a faint, itchy discoloration. A nice rosy blush to compliment the greenish bruising. It fucking stings, and itches, but it’s all surface sensation. Subdermal healing is complete. Technically. If only my brain would register the fact. All the damage to my skin will fade to nothing in the next few days, I’m told. As long as I listen to the healers, drink my elixirs, and don’t aggravate anything by trying to run. Non-compliance in my medical records isn’t a good thing if I need future treatment. Stay put, stay still, this will only hurt a bit.

Or, more simply put, I puts the lotion on my skin _and_ I gets the hose again.

Personally, I think I’ve got enough hoses, thanks. Intravenous times two, to start. Feeding tube shoved so far up my nose it rubs at my sinus and keeps making my left eye tear up before dropping down to my gut, for another. Throwing up with _that_ in was a fucking tap-dancing baby Dodongo and a half. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still did it. Still managed to have a massive panic attack while completely unaware of my surroundings and fully regretting my own existence. For science. Yes.

We’ll just…go with that.

I don’t even know which extra scoop in my whiskey drenched and flaming shit-sundae of a life the whole episode was about, or if it was simply a reward for consumer loyalty. Buy six major trauma events, get one free. Thankfully at that point most of the hoses were already in place and a delicate sprinkle of delicious knock-out juice in my I.V. put me out until _after_ they were done getting the rest of the hoses jammed in and taped in place.

Medical monstrosities, all of them. Snaking through my veins and sucking at my marrow, doing the things my body can’t do for itself. A necessary support and brutal violation in impersonal latex and polypropylene sheaths hiding steel and paternalism at the core, but one that I understand and can be indifferent to. They’re there now. They might as well stay.

Not gonna lie, the morphine drip that I can call my own is kinda nice, in a weird off-balance floaty acid-trip kind of way. The alchemical elixir gives the acid-trip a window-seat every half hour on the hour. The catheter is simply a surprise bukakke party invitation adding playground insults to catastrophic aetherial injury resulting in death.

For almost four and a half minutes. Two hundred and sixty-four seconds by best estimate. If not for Princess Tetra breathing for me, I may not have been able to do the math when I woke up. _If_ I’d woken up. The kiss of a princess literally gave me life, and if that isn’t something directly out of a fairy-tale, I don’t know what is. Next thing you know, Link will have the Master Sword, Princess Tetra – not Princess Hilda like I first thought because apparently fuck logic with an un-lubricated traffic cone – will have yeeted the Malice of Demise’s Oath from this plane of reality for another millennia or two, and I’ll have not only my doctorate, but a permanent full-time salaried job with benefits and a retirement package.

Yeah, _right_.

Fuck, laughing hurts almost as much as coughing, and I did it to my own damn self.

And now I have a visitor. One that I dare not refuse, though we’ve managed to keep _why_ I dare not refuse her more secret than the true identity of my parents. At least five people – if you include my parents – know _that_ , and only Link, Regan, Tye, Sorelia, Hina, Tetra, and I know about _her_.

Wait.

Okay, fuck you too, math.

Also, just for the record, _ow_. Ow, ow, ow, ow. Why does everything have to hurt?

Oh yeah, they reduce my pain meds so I can stay awake for check-ups and visitors, even though I can’t really respond. The tubes, you see, and the pain. Makes it hard to focus on damn near anything else. Luckily, I’m fucking talented.

“Hello again, Kaya.” My Princess says – still wearing the goggles that hide her eyes and the scarf that covers her face but not the horrendous, hopefully discounted, boxed drugstore bleach job – settling into the chair that was brought in specifically for her visits…I’m not exactly certain when. It was there the first time I remember waking up, and has only moved around since. The ceiling and walls move too, so it’s not special, though that may be the morphine talking. Or the cocktail of elixirs. Or both. Both? Both sounds good.

Today, that chair is at the foot of my narrow hospital bed on the left side, next to a slowly deflating foil-balloon blob that I think is supposed to be a Sand Seal, but could be a walrus instead. Or a hydromelon, given the way the vibrant coralline hue makes my head throb. The stack of Get Well Soon cards could ignite the entire city’s worth of bonfires for Lover’s Day – which is in two days closer than I remember it being, five days from now according to my room’s whiteboard calendar – and have been piled against the opposite wall in boxes organized by date.

Apparently helping to save a city from obliteration on national television makes a guy popular with the local ladies. Who knew? Too bad I’m violet as fuck. And spook. And as allergic to sentiment as I was before my Reading Week plans were put on indefinite hold. But I’m alive…and my Princess is expecting some kind of response to her standard opening line. As much as I wanted to run the ass-bleeding fuck away from the weight of her expectations before, I appreciate her steady presence now. She’s _familiar_ , and Farore knows nothing else is.

There aren’t even any unsettled ghosts here. _Here_. In the desert. In the trauma recovery ward of a hospital. What in the inexpertly waxed ball-sack slapping fuck, Sabak?

Despite the raw itching shivers of my freshly formed skin and renewed attachments, I find myself wanting to hug her. Which is how I know my medication is working, even if they’ve cut back on how much I’m allowed. Story of my life: the things that I want most are the things that cause me the most pain. Pain that I want to feel, even if it overwhelms me a little, because it means I’m still alive, and so is she. She’s _alive_ , and here, and solid and real in a way that I’m not entirely certain that I am, myself, and that somehow equates into me being happy to see her.

I’m happy to see her, and – still on the medically restricted narcotics – want to express that.

The best I can manage is to lift two fingers a whole three centimeters and kind-of half grunt, half wheeze around the tube and the drug-induced dissociation by way of a greeting, and she smiles. That’s one more centimeter than I managed last time she was here. Maybe yesterday. Maybe a few hours ago. Maybe it was all a hallucination. I have no idea. Time has no meaning in a place with no night.

There is _nothing_ here to help me temporally orient myself. I can’t trust the whiteboard calendar to be properly updated. No meals, no clocks, no windows, no doors, no _air_ aside from the heavily filtered supply coming through the vents that are cleaned frequently enough that they’ve done it nine times that I remember, though some of that may have been fever dreams. It’s hard to tell. Something about burn victims and infection, even though the evidence of my slow roasting was mostly healed on the field _before_ I was exploded.

Which is fine, really. I mostly just want to sleep, and only have to wake up when there’s something happening that requires my informed consent, now that it’s no longer presumptive.

I’ve got one more round with the alchemical lotions and the uncomfortable, sterile hoses going where no hose should go without _explicit and ongoing_ consent… and for some Goddess-forsaken reason there are people that do it for fun. Not that I’m kink-shaming, just... _why._ I’m only doing it because I have to, and then I can leave this bubble and move to an actual room. Or be moved, since, well…I was exploded, and haven’t really done much, since. Nothing that hasn’t involved at least three baffled doctors, two confused surgeons, a bevy of over-worked nurses, a video-call with an over-extended aetherologist in Gerudo Town, and a good two dozen support staff, anyway.

Unless my math is off. Stupid math. Stupid biology…though I shouldn’t really expect better from the poorly-electrified gelatin blob that is my brain. It’s _trying_ , okay? It doesn’t _matter_ how many people have joined in on the poke-the-spook party, and there just isn’t much else to think about without thinking about stuff I really don’t want to think about, so counting it is. Not that I get much past two with any reliable frequency, anyway.

I don’t even care. Today, there’s no plastic barrier of any kind between Tetra and I, so she can lay her hand over mine and squeeze. Gently. With the not-terrifying hand and a watery smile on her face, fairly bursting at the seams with joy and relief and something warm and soft and beautiful.

Okay. So, um, maybe not _everything_ hurts.

Honestly, most of it does. My brain still hasn’t caught up with the last session of aetherically enhanced restorative work, the unnatural speed of it sending my nerves into panicked screaming long after the cause for the screaming has passed.

“ _It’s good to see you again_.” She murmurs softly in Middle Hyrulean instead of Modern or even Gerudo, because even if they’re standardized platitudes it sets a baseline for our exchanges that most of the staff can’t understand and any spies would hopefully grow bored of quickly. Another layer of protection for her and confirmation of her assumed identity, though where she picked it up makes me wonder.

For maybe three-quarters of a second. Not too hard. I don’t have the strength to do anything too hard. Move. Think. Stay awake. Breathe. I try, though. She deserves that much from me.

She’s the one that saved us all. I remember _that_. It’s kind of hard to forget.

I just…wasn’t enough. Of anything. After all these years of building myself up and trying. Of making it to the crucial juncture, this time. Of failing anyway.

But I’m alive.

“ _I see they’ve let you out of your packaging. Do you mind if I tend to your hair? It’s…a bit of a mess.”_ She pulls a drugstore haircare pack out of her bag – probably gotten at the same time as her expired box-of-bleach and insufficient toner – and I can’t help but groan. Then wince, because ow, ribs. Still…

…my _hair._ I haven’t been able to look at what, at this point, _has_ to be a World Record of dirt, debris, tangles, and various bodily and medical fluids. I didn’t think…much at all. Let alone about _that_. Frankly, I’m surprised the staff didn’t shave me bald. It would have been easier, and it would have _crushed_ me. Almost as badly as my ribs, which are – were – neatly fractured.

I think she knows that. Link would have told her. Told her to be careful, too, by the way she’s hesitating, even though it needs to be done at some point. The sooner, the better, no matter what how I feel about her being the one to do it. Given the Gerudo propensity for both thick and long hair, you’d _think_ they’d have staff for this.

…actually, no. Despite how deeply beneath her it is, Princess Tetra is preferable to another Aveil, especially since the hospital staff has even _more_ personally compromising information on me than Aveil did.

I nod, giving my Princess permission and making the walls move and her patterns flare. Letting her behind me, again, despite what happened last time. Not that I could really stop her from doing it, but there’s no use in making her feel guilty about doing it, either. Allowing her an intimacy usually reserved only for family, lovers, and morticians. What’s the worst that she could do that she hasn’t already done?

She killed me. I remember that, too. That it was an accident. That I was content – no, _happy_ – to have served my purpose. _Finally_.

I was _there_ , this time. Where I needed to be. I was _happy_ – felt it moving through me, felt it overflowing, felt _whole_ – and I went willingly to my ultimate destiny. The fate that I had been born to fill, that she’d tried to deny. I welcomed it with open arms, an open weaving, and an open smile on my face.

I wasn’t expecting the light at the end of the tunnel to be a train.

I also wasn’t expecting to wake up after getting hit.

Even if I _didn’t_ remember, if I had only scattered bits and pieces of those moments, I just have to let myself be aware of my _saithr_ strands to know _something_ happened. Something that would have killed me – _did_ kill me – if…oh, Nayru, this is hard enough to explain _without_ being high as a kite. I don’t know how I’ll make a coherent report to the Grand Master when this is all over and I can speak with her again. If she’s still alive. If.. _ow_.

_“Ngh!”_ Ow, ow, ribs!

“ _Sorry, sorry! Tangle.”_

_Breathe_ , Kaya. It’s fine. Let go of the sheets. Relax.

Even fucking stoned out of my gourd on the best pain-killers a doctor can reluctantly prescribe, I can tell that something _happened_ to the core of my weaving that should have killed me – permanently – if there wasn’t already a hole in my weaving for it to pass through. “It” being the unregulated Light of a piece of the fucking Triforce, now dormant in Tetra’s hand as she gives me the yank and tug I need instead of the rub and tug that I want. Plus a few fingers buried to the knuckle for the comfort of it since I know can’t manage to take the jostling a cock would give me right at the moment. Some serotonin in my blood stream would be nice right about now. The little button in my hand just gets me morphine directly into my I.V.

Just enough to dull the pain, which is quickly becoming unbearable the longer I’m awake and aware of just how _much_ having my heart restarted, a third of the casing around my meat sack burned to popping and blistering, five broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and a full magic-meter replacement installed in the space of less than an hour – not to mention dying in the first place – _fucking hurts_.

FYI…it’s a lot. Like, a lot a lot. I can’t stop shaking.

Oh yeah. Button time, baby.

If it weren’t for the anchors of my Bond with Eran being shattered, and my Bond with Link being so precisely – almost surgically – removed, I _would_ be dead. Still dead. I _should_ be dead. No matter what anyone did to my corpse, after, I would have been _dead_. Being wholly suffused with light...burned me out. “Me” being every trace of my magic, mind, spirit, and soul. Without something to call those scattered shards back and…

…and…

…not something. Some _one._ I…

When I wake up again, I’m alone, and there are two tight blond braids of my hair trailing down my sides and tucked close against my arms to keep from tangling in all the cords. My scalp is no longer crawling, which I didn’t know was bothering me until it stopped, and my face feels cleaner. Not as crusty. Better.

Shit’s still shit, but hey, it’s all in the bowl, and it’s not so clingy that I’ll be wiping for half an hour after I’m done taking it.

Taking a deep breath before I remember that doing so inevitably hurts like biting into a six layer sprinkle-coated razor-blade bitch-cake filled with tacks and peroxide lets me know I _can_. When my eye doesn’t water on the inhale, I blink, and swallow, and nothing obstructs my airway. The feeding tube is gone. Lifting my hand to check makes me smile, because not only can I do that, too, but one of the intravenous lines has disappeared, and the bruising around the injection site itself has gone down to a pale yellowish mark on my otherwise smooth skin.

_Good Morning_ , _sleepyhead!_ I can read the message under today’s date left on the whiteboard by the door when I sit up and stretch. Still achy, itchy, and very sore, but manageable. Briefly. Not long enough to get a quarter of the kinks out of my spine – let alone out of my brain – forcing me to lie down or fall down…and then I’m waking up again, and my stomach insists that it’s time for breakfast.

Sunshine from the window, overlooking a park where kids are kicking a ball. A private room about four times the size of my dorm, with a private toilet. A toilet means…yup. Checking beneath the blanket shows no catheter, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy with the results of having no memory of someone else’s hand on my dick. I even have a new gown, and glance around my new environment to figure out where they’ve moved me, what I can expect, where Tetra went, and possible escape routes if it comes to that.

Intravenous, check. Aetheric supplementation array, check. Shitty paper hospital gown, check. Row of potions and elixirs and pills, check. Handcuff on my left wrist attached to the bed frame, fuck.

Breathe. _Breathe,_ Kaya. Ignore the shiny matching steel bracelets. Don’t look. _Don’t look_. Don’t look, just keep breathing. If you don’t look, you won’t see, and a metal cuff feels _nothing_ like the plastic zipt…

No. _No._ Stop it.

Breathe.

A Silver Scale. Yeah. That’s…that it. Just a new Silver Scale. That’s _it_. Move _on_. What else do you need to be aware of right now?

Aether-dampening field around the bed, tied into the arrays inked on my chest and down my stomach, check and check. Without my converter, that’s – if not reasonable – at least expected. Security bringing in a covered tray that smells fantastic is not. Security _ladies_. Women. Still bigger and stronger than I am, but _women_. Thank the Three. Neither of them look at me as they put the tray on the bedside table and wheel it in place over my legs, but they don’t need to look at me for me to read them in a desperate attempt to redirect my focus and firmly anchor myself in the present.

Basic beige boredom is predominant, with flickers of champagne golden amusement beneath that. The taller one with paler skin and nearly bubble-gum pink hair is resigned, while the shorter, darker one with hair the same shade as my eyes is annoyed. Both of them are mildly entertained by the novelty of their current assignment. No aggression or arousal or fear, and it makes me wonder how long it took them to find a set of guards that weren’t inclined towards violence.

It’s probably just my experience with the A.R.G. in Castletown talking, but I’m not used to local law enforcement of any stripe practically pampering me while on duty. Pounding me into the ground? Yes. Cossetting me and bringing me breakfast in bed? No. I know I’m still on the good drugs because I have to actively work at not giggling over it all. The Gerudo of the desert are _strange_. Pinky even fluffs my pillow to help me sit up so I can eat without spilling on myself before they leave. Red pats the foot of my bed with a smile as a reward for my good behavior.

What the actual fuck. Is this…bemusement? It has to be. Feeling it’s different from seeing it, that’s for fucking sure.

The food’s cold thanks to the extended delivery protocol, and I manage about half of it before I have to rest, the exhaustion of multiple restorative sessions keeping me as docile as a giant panda while they count my cutlery and come up on the non-stabby side of things. Maybe that means that I’ll get a ceramic plate and metal utensils instead of flimsy plastic, next time. Now though, with my tummy full of soup and my stamina exhausted from lifting a fucking disposable plastic spoon a dozen times, I need a nap.

And the biggest, best spoon.

Fuck. Wait. _No_. In no way am I ready for that. Not…quite yet, at least. Not now, not when – in a quiet room by myself, security at the door to keep me _in_ but also to keep others _out,_ with nothing to do _but_ to heal, _but_ to rest – I am for once, finally, alone _enough_.

No one will care, as long as I’m quiet and don’t fuck off into a full blown panic attack thanks to the combination of my new _Silver Scale_ and old, half-forgotten memories brought to the surface once again by pain and loneliness. If I keep my imminent breakdown in the realm of believably mentally stable, no one will come to quiet me down with furious fists or well-meant words of comfort, both designed to satisfy their own desires…namely, have me shut up and stop bothering them. There are no expectations for me to fulfill, no requirements I need to meet.

It’s freeing in a way that I’m not certain anyone else could truly understand. Not even _Bedstemor_ Purah, who’s lost more people than she can remember and is well aware of the fact. She’s never _died_.

Now that I have, and as grateful as I am to be alive, I…understand the phrase _rest in peace_ very, very well. It was _so_ peaceful, and living…living really isn’t. Fuck, even breathing still hurts in a way that’s a lot like poking a bruise, except the bruise is everything and the poking is existence itself.

My skin may be smooth and whole, but it itches. Bruising means I’m healing. That I have the _opportunity_ to heal. Same with thinking. I _can_ , sort of. And I am, disjointed and scattered as my thoughts are. I'm doing it. Acknowledging what I’ve lost. _Remembering_ while I still am able. This…this is just another part in the healing process. Holding the hurt has let me learn the shape of it, how much _this_ aches, and what the limits of this _particular_ pain is, but now? It’s time I let it go.

So I let go.

The weight of my grief runs heavy on my cheeks, and I let it sit, wanting to feel my tears soaking into my skin. To know that they’re real, both the reason and the result.

I still can’t allow myself to wail, can’t even do so much as whimper, something sharp and throbbing and broken inside me keeping me from that, but I can cry, I can _mourn_ , and – despite the pervasive ache in my chest that has nothing to do with emotions or loss and everything to do with broken ribs that have barely begun to properly knit back together – I do.

Thanks to my brand new weighted bracelet, I have to roll to move my hands so I can turn my back on the door, and tap down _hard_ on the instinct against that. Hiding my tears is more important than seeing what's coming to hurt me next...at least, for now, as long as I stay quiet. The smallest trickle precludes the flood. And then it comes. I can only curl in on myself and clutch at my skin, flinching back from nothing and everything and the shame that rises unbidden in my throat. Grind my teeth together. Swallow. Ground myself in being present in this moment, and let it pour out. Breathe shallow and fast, in hitches and muffled gasps. Catch each precious moment and memory I can, no matter how painful, because there aren’t any more to make. The past is the past, no matter how recent, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.

I can only remember. Transmute regret into resolve. Loss into love. Distance into dreams, and soak the pillow clear through even as I fill both hands with my Gratitude. My honor and my burden, both.

And then I am empty.

Body sore and aching from the strain of harsh breaths, eyes swollen and damp, meagre reserves drained by my casting – the gathering, the weaving, the binding, the sealing – I push for the strength to conceal the newly made Spirit Orbs between the mattress and the mechanics that move it before letting myself relax. Wipe my face on the bedding. Roll back over.

If they’re checking that I haven’t made a plastic spoon into a shiv, they’ll definitely take something so much more dangerous from a proven witch. I’ve done some stupid shit in my life, but calling on all of my Spirit Orbs at once – well over a hundred – and using them as-is directly in front of a Witchfinder Auditor has got to be in my top three.

My own personal replay of Bad Decisions: The Cutscene runs through my head until I lose it beneath a series of daydreams, slipping into sleep like a Zora into Lake Hylia on the way to the Water Temple instead of an uncontrolled plummet that would have come if I had struggled against myself to stay conscious. Dreams that are disjointed and muddled, decompressing everything my heavily medicated mind couldn’t process while I was being kept under, but thankfully not sending me into screaming nightmares. This time.

I wake up curled on my side, clutching at my own arms, and drooling onto my freshly brushed braids - lying on one of them and eating the other - feeling energized but out of sorts, disjointed like my brain has calibrated my body a full centimeter left of center, and just in time for lunch. And visitors. Plural, for the first time since I was brought here. I’ve seen Tetra what I assume is every day, and Tye visited once to bring me replacement bindings that were promptly confiscated, but they came separately…I think. At least they were separated when they came into my tiny little Observation unit that is still somehow larger than my dorm.

Which is understandable, given hospital protocols and the fact I wasn’t really conscious anyway. No one could figure out how I got here, and last I checked the Witchfinder Auditor was as visibly pissed about that as she was about Prune-face’s creative Writ interpretations, so law enforcement would be floundering. Plus, I’d just played a central role in destroying the Lines of Sabak, and then halving a moving dune of sand the size of a small mountain. If the medical staff _hadn’t_ exercised extreme caution, I’d be concerned.

Nothing like having the nexus point of enough manifested Force to qualify as a localized extinction event suddenly show up to the weekly book-club meeting uninvited and asking for snacks. _No wonder_ everyone’s on edge. Professional, but as antsy as forgotten watermelon rinds in the park bin on a Sunsday in summer.

As much as I dislike being feared out of unreasonable prejudice, it’s manageable. Just have to prove the prejudice incorrect every single time it comes up, and voila, instant, unsustainable solution. Being feared for things that are genuinely my responsibility is _so much worse_. I don’t like it, or know what to do about it. It’s not like I can do any of my favorite four F responses, either, and simply using my favorite four letter F word isn’t nearly enough.

All that really means, practically, is that when Tetra, Tye, Regan, Hina, Sorelia, and Link crowd into my private hospital room with a picnic lunch in hand, the guards on my door scrounge up enough chairs for everyone without being asked, and inform their superiors immediately.

“Hello again, Kaya.” Tetra – with her guise of Lady Sheik firmly in place – greets me in Modern this time and immediately has the guards unlock my hand. Surprisingly, they allow it, either confident in my pervasive exhaustion, or unwilling to risk the group’s wrath should they refuse. I feel better already, but still can’t meet her eyes or bring myself to speak.

Her touch is gentle, but lingers perhaps a little longer than I would expect it needs to. Long enough to for her to check my pulse, which speeds up slightly at the thought. Why is she doing this? Any of it? It doesn’t make sense.

She tilts her head, clears her throat, and the guards fuck right off, letting Regan and Hina take the door in their place. Sorelia puts a purposefully shaky Silence over the room. Tye places an obfuscation talisman over the window as Tetra settles in one of the oversized waiting room chairs instead of the padded visitor’s seat with a graceful deliberation. Her fiancé moves to help me sit-up.

The moment his warm, strong, calloused hands brush against my skin my addiction to his touch – and the last few hours of barely suppressed panic, grief, exhaustion, and more panic – has my fingers clutching at his arms with a desperation comparable to a dozen incontinent people during intermission at an outdoor music festival with five sun-warmed portable pissers. My only consolation is found in how swiftly those arms encircle my shoulders and his weight dips the edge of the mattress as he sits. Slides in. Reaches.

My master’s normally careful hands are rough and grasping as he pulls me closer, his fingers tangling in my hair, digging into my skull, cradling my head against his shoulder, pressing my nose to his throat, my cheek to his chin, his colors both covetous and needy…and he _doesn’t_ hurt me. Doesn’t punish me for my failures. For not keeping up. For losing him. For not leading him to the Princess. For scaring him. For not being _enough_. For dying. Doesn’t turn me over or push me down. Doesn’t yell, or hit, or laugh, or _leave_ , or…or anything else. Just holds me steady, tight and warm.

He’s so fucking strange.

I lean against him, eyes closed and shaking, and breathe him in. Floral fabric softener, cheap soap, rich linden and loam and the musky tang of the sweat of a healthy young man. Blame the sharp pain in my chest on my ribs, and nothing else, though he’s careful not to even brush against them, too busy burying his hands in my filthy hair like the oil and dirt and blood don’t bother him one bit.

Sorelia takes my tray of plastic covered plastic wrapped plastic and puts it on the floor by the door, exchanging the perfectly acceptable – if bland, mushy, and unsalted – hospital food for the assortment of dishes they brought. I bite my tongue against the instinctive protest – that the provided food is fine, it shouldn’t be wasted – and instead let it dart out to taste the stubbled skin of Link’s throat. That damp touch makes him tense and his fingers press harder, out-right pulling my hair and probably bruising my back in four evenly spaced fingertip circles, and I smile and do it again.

“Later.” He urges, the words hissed quick and raw and just the way I want it…though I could do slow and gentle, too. The way he likes to do me, even. That would be alright. 

Sorelia passes out napkins, then settles at Tye’s side, their patterns merging into...right. They’re married.

“How do you feel about getting out of here, Kaya?” Tetra asks, offering me my freedom as if the choice really is that simple. As if I could walk out under my own power with no shelter or food and not end up right back where I started or maybe even the morgue in a couple days if left alone. I…need support, still. I’m not fit to leave on my own. She is…built of soft rose, subdued sandstone, and glittering gold threaded with streaks of flares of lapis and berry blue. Complex and kind. Tired…no, _weary_. Happiness melting into melancholy, echoed through everyone here. Including myself. There’s so much to celebrate, and so much to grieve. Where do we even start?

“…together.” Link sighs into my hair. I don’t think I spoke out loud, his exhalation more of a conclusion than a response…but that sounds good. Together sounds good. Really good.

Then the scent of the food hits me, and I make a sound that I didn’t know I _could_ make without a man moving steadily over me at just the right angle. Antiseptic and disinfectant and medications with gastrointestinal consequences all fade into nothing as I inhale the first hit of deliberately controlled fermentation.

Lids and caps come off quickly, revealing to my eyes what my nose has already told me when Hina opened the sour and spicy red cabbage, this batch heavy on the ginger. Rice balls wrapped in salted seaweed sheets. Rolled omelets, neatly sliced. Potato salad. Mixed pickled vegetables…bright orange swift carrots, latticed lotus roots, gardenia stained white radish, the bright green stalks of young Hyrule herb, and early-picked pickled plums. Blanched spinach with sesame seeds and oil. Salted soy beans still in their shells.

We have the recipes, preserved along with their resultant beneficial properties in books and scrolls older than the Hero of Champion’s bones, but not the language those words come from. Not anymore…but that’s not why I ache. It is my _mouth_ that waters, not my eyes. Well, not primarily my eyes. Not when the scent of what _has_ to be a home-cooked meal that I did not make myself – that was made with me in _mind_ – fills the space with a forgotten perfume and delivers all the memories that accompany it when I inhale. 

It smells like _home_.

I eat more than I probably should. Definitely more than I’ve earned, what with Mr. Dragonborne’s Rupees gone wherever his kaftan ended up. I don’t care, and eat everything Tye puts in my bowl with shaking hands and so much muted lavender nostalgia I could burst. Entirely unable to do both that _and_ process the conversation around me, I let their words float overhead and focus exclusively on the task of getting as much food into my gullet as I can without making myself sick and before the pervasive exhaustion overwhelms me again…and then I need to sleep. What a pile of fossilized Moblin shit. Still, there’s no denying that I _need_ a nap.

Not for long, and with Link’s warmth at my side and hand resting lightly on my thigh just above my knee in one of the few spots of skin that isn’t either covered or cold or hurting, sitting between me and the rest of the room, I give up the fight with my nerves and take the rest my body desperately craves.

Majora is smiling on me when I wake – which, honestly, I really don’t fucking need right now since I have no idea what She wants in return – but I’ll take it. And run, even with nowhere to go. Running would be good, as soon as I figure out _why_ and where and which way is up. The first happens before the last, and only encourages my instinctual flight response.

Not that I can articulate it, yet. The bed is still warm from Link’s body heat, but he’s gone, and there’s no sign of either Tye or Tetra, which, okay, fine. Hina, Sorelia and Regan will have to do. We can grab everybody else on the way out, but we need to go. _Now_.

“We need to leave.” I croak out like a ninety-year old smoker who’s never dipped beneath a pack a day, and pour myself a plastic mug of water from the room temperature jug to help make talking easier. I suppose after not speaking for at least three days, having the tubes pulled out, and, y’know, _dying_ , my voice is going to be a little rough, but we _need_ _to go_.

More specifically, _Princess Tetra_ needs to GTFO. If I could, I’d escort her myself…but she won’t go without Link, and Link won’t go without me, and so we need to disappear _before_ whatever thinly sliced, under-baked, gluten-free nutloaf that summoned a fucking Molduga from the fucking Dark Realm escalates into Divine Beast-mode and annihilates Sabak on the molecular level in retaliation for us killing their pet cryptid.

“ _That’s reason-purpose_ Lady Sheik _and_ Lord Korokshire _have gone from here. They’re signing your release forms_. _We’ll go-leave when they’re returned._ ” Regan yawns in Middle Hyrulean and makes my head hurt, knuckling at his eye even though it’s only mid-afternoon. From the exhaustion laced through his weaving on every possible level, I don’t know if he’s slept since…since I saw him last. As relaxed as his posture is, he’s still guarding my door, and has been since the moment they arrived. “ _You…gave-delivered us-not-related-group quite the alarm, my impulsively-foolish sibling-in-spirit.”_

_"Impulsively-foolish?”_ I’ve been called a lot of things, and deserve about a third of them, but any kind of foolish has never been on the list. Besides, he’s one to talk. “ _The holy-descendant-bloodline abandoned-rejected-discarded me over a decade ago, and I_ still _know-understand better than to let-allow the Bearer-Descendant remain where the Promise-of-Ages first manifested.”_

_"It is not Secretkeeper’s place-right to ‘let-allow’ me to do anything, Kaya!”_ Tetra calls from just outside the open door, apparently close enough to hear my scathing opinion of Regan’s intelligence clearly…and reply with his descriptive name. If she’s close enough to hear and avoiding using any legally identifying information, that means so are other people, and even if they can’t understand me in the moment, recording devices and translators exist. Shutting up now.

Shrinking back onto my thin plastic mattress, effectively shamed and proving Regan is a better Sheik than I ever was yet again, I close my eyes against the brightness of the sun and reach for my freshly made beads to avail myself of their stored aether. Rattle the replaced cuffs. _Fuck_. Tetra is close, which means Tye is too, and Link won’t be far away either. I barely have the strength to roll over, and need to force at least one lock and two wards, quickly, so I _need_ the power I spent so long storing if I want to get out of here.

I _want_ to get out of here. She _needs_ to get out of here.

I _need_ to get rid of the handcuffs. We need to _fucking_ _go._

“ _Truthspeaker.”_ Hina doesn’t move from the door – her hues as diaphanously faded as Regan’s but more embarrassed to his amused – as she calls _my_ descriptive name to get my attention. “ _Nice legs._ ”

I…what? She’s not even looking at me! Neither is Sorelia, though Tye’s wife can’t hide her embarrassed blush as easily as Hina’s darker skin can. But…Hina’s blushing as well. Deeply enough that the back of her neck is flushed.

Is there something wrong with my legs? They’re…there? I have all my toes, and can wiggle them. Can see them wiggling, and yeah, feet are weird to look at and poorly designed for bipedal locomotion, but my legs are normal…if a bit thin and knobby from the weight I’ve lost. My skin’s its normal color, so why…it is a bit breezy. My gown, like all hospital gowns, has no back. The door is open.

_Oh. My. Goddess_. Seriously?

It’s _just_ an ass, with maybe a bit of cock for flavor. _Prudes_. Everyone’s got an ass, otherwise metaphorically wouldn’t be the only way they’re full of shit. Sorelia has a husband. Hina’s got two brothers, and is in her thirties. I’m absolutely _certain_ they both know what a penis is, and it’s not like I’m tea-bagging anyone. I just have no clothing that meets any kind of modesty standards, and that’s not even my fault.

I will admit it may make staying inconspicuous a little more challenging.

Not that being the only group of Sheikah in Hyrule’s largest province where our presence is forbidden really allows for discretion, honestly.

_"Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”_ The snark comes naturally as a complimentary side to the sass. It’s a gift, I swear.

“ _I’ve seen better.”_ Hina snorts, but her blush is dying down. Sorelia’s isn’t. Regan is openly laughing, the Double-casting bastard.

_“If I had a Bene-Factor account, that would have been behind the first paywall._ ” Rolling my eyes, I also roll back to sit properly in the bed instead of fiddling with the latch on the cuffs or trying to chew my hand off to get out, and tuck the sheets in place to cover the full moon and satellite shot I just gave at least three people. For free.

A tiny bit of embarrassment is a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things, especially considering that shame fuels a multi-billion rupee diet industry. It kept me from freaking out, too, but seriously, fuck You and all Your grabby little tie-dye tentacle-arms, Majora.

Alright. ‘Bracelet’, then clothing, and _then_ make like a top contestant for the annual Running Man marathon.

The bracelet removal part takes a half-hour where each minute’s passing is measured in a compounding nervous tick and slow degradation of my questionable sanity, but that’s mostly because the nurse won’t take my I.V. out without it on and security in the room, and there isn’t space for them _and_ the Displaced Royals cheer squad at the same time. The ensuing shuffle of distrust would be hilarious if I wasn’t chained down and riding the thin line between panic and dissociation when I discover that even with the additional strength of a full Magic Jug and one of my new shiny new Spirit Orbs, I can’t slip the lock.

Dislocating my thumb doesn’t work either, my wrists finally too thin for the physics that option requires.

I still try. Try forcing it when that doesn’t work and get another dose of sedatives for my trouble. Try harder as a result. End up with a set of parallel bruises and raw skin for the effort. Of course the attempt burns through my meagre reserves, increasing both my pain and exhaustion, and so by the time I’m half-way through putting on a pair of socks that actually fit and don’t have girly flowers on them on my feet, I’m spent.

No one says anything about any of it. Tye just helps me finish getting dressed in borrowed clothes. T-shirt and sweats in periwinkle and mauve camo print with no underwear, thankfully, because the donated clothes are clearly second-or-eighth hand. Regan takes up my remaining cluster of Spirit Orbs and the honest-to-Din Gratitude crystal. Sorelia packs up her wards and the remains of lunch both. Tetra wields my paperwork like a scimitar to cut our way straight through the bureaucracy. Hina holds my hair so I don’t sit on it as Link lifts me from bed to wheelchair to cab.

His hands are so warm, even in the afternoon sun. I can’t help but turn my face towards him like a sunflower on a cloudy day. But it’s not cloudy. The sky is clear. The day less scorchingly hot than I remember. Princess Tetra is safe. Link is by her side. I’m alive to see it.

She directs the driver to an unfamiliar address. Link makes certain my seatbelt is secure, fastens his own, and takes up my hand. Holds on, not letting go until we arrive at our destination, and then only long enough to get out and pick me up again. I don’t even mind being treated like a bundle of boney baggage. Not really.

Cradled against my Master’s chest, drained from the simple act of staying awake for the entire trip, I’m asleep before I can ask where, exactly, we are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much debate, the Title for Part Three boiled down to Above Hoarded Gold instead of a direct food pun, and comes from “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, and also the Gold of the Triforce and how Link thinks of Kaya and some stuff relating to classism as well as a few other things that will be obliquely referenced as the story progresses.  
> Clicks, Comments, and Kudos appreciated <3


	2. Your True Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link cries. A lot. It’s kind of cathartic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most heterosexual thing I have ever written (even in the context of a pre-poly relationships, while still being hella queer) and have next to no idea if this is How It Works ™, but I tried.
> 
> TW: oh...oops. Forgot to put in anything severe enough to count. I think. If I am mistaken about this, plz tell me.  
> CW: AAAAAANGST, Grief, Adulting, Self-flagellation, Emotional Turmoil, Language, Magic Bullshitting, Guilt with a Capital Fuck, Paradigm Shifts Sting like a Bitch Don’t They, Brief Mentions of Past Gore, Heavy Recall, Cuddle Time™, Blink-and-You’ll-Miss-It Tetra x Link Relationship Exposition, Could-Be-Read as Top-Drop Tetra Considering...
> 
> FC – 8, courtesy of Sheik

The South-East GSC* hostel is inconspicuous. Small, worn, cramped, crowded, and clearly meant to house people of much larger stature than any of us…and therefore simultaneously also far too big for every single member of our particular group. We’re all Hylian or Sheikah, and all the furniture and appliances are intended for the people native to the region. That fact alone is all that gives us a little bit of breathing room without having to sit on each other’s laps and keeps us out of the public eye, but affords absolutely no privacy in any sense of the word. Uncomfortable, but better. For all of us.

The hostel itself has a kitchen, toilet, bath, living space, and bedroom with two bunks – four beds – meant for Gerudo sized people, all crammed into nearly the same amount of space as my suite back home. Even Tye, easily the largest of us, takes up barely half of his allotted bunk-space, though the individual beds are too long rather than too wide to be comfortable.

In comparison, Kaya seems so very small.

Carefully laying him in the bottom bunk in the corner of the room – easier than trying to get him up top, and easier for him to get out of by himself if he needs to – I make sure his hair is out of the way, and he’s turned on his side instead of flat on his back. Tucking the blanket around his skeletal shoulders and feeling him shivering despite the heat of the day, I have to resist crawling into the bunk as well with everything I that have. To curl myself around him, and share my warmth.

I _can’t_ , even if I want it badly enough that I have to remind myself why it’s such a bad idea, even though I know there’s technically space. I haven’t asked. It’s too hot. I’m still worried, and tired, and have responsibilities that mean I can’t risk an accidental nap. Plus, he’s so very frail that even my best intentions would only end up causing him more pain. Jostle his fragile ribs. Irritate his new skin. My touch would only gift him further discomfort, when he is already hurting so very, very much. Hurting enough that it shows on his face, despite the medication, even while he’s asleep.

The less said about the thready, tremulous quality of his melody, the better…and that’s my fault. Not all of it, but most.

Regan’s made that much explicitly clear. Tye didn’t reprimand him for it. Tetra was out visiting him, and I haven’t brought it up, since. There hasn’t been time…but the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that Regan was right. I am at fault, and the guilt presses on my chest until it slithers up my throat and seeps out my eyes.

He’s _so_ thin.

I am the one that took him from the life he had built himself, intending to transplant him somewhere where he could flourish, and ended up merely uprooting him. Left him on the side of the path I chose to walk when the direction changed. Neglected to feed him – quite literally, as I was carrying the majority of our rations – in my haste, even though I _knew_ that he would not eat on his own. Would not think to…would not think that he _could_. That it was allowed.

That I, his _domine_ – no matter how I feel about that word – would allow him the access or the time.

In my rush to find Tetra…I can’t say that I would have. I certainly didn’t make it enough of a priority. Eating takes _time_ , and while we certainly stopped moving long enough to inhale whatever was at hand, I didn’t let either of us linger…and I’ve never seen Sheik bolt his food the way I can when there’s something else I want to do. Be surprised by it, savor it, insist on finishing it, and hide it, yes, but he doesn’t… _disregard_ it the way I tend to. He takes his time, and never takes more than he can eat. Eats slowly and carefully. Always.

Always remembers exactly what and when and how much he eats, too. Measuring each mouthful with an attentive reverence that I thought was just part of his personality, before. I noticed, but I didn’t understand. I don’t know if I really understand why, if _he_ understands why, or even knows he’s doing it, but I noticed, and I’m starting to get the reason behind the rhythm.

He…Telma tried to tell me what hunger can do to a person. I thought I understood, but obviously I didn’t. I still don’t. I was _hungry_ during my time with the City Guard, yes, but I wasn’t starving. I’ve never had that experience, and while it makes me fiercely glad, it also makes me sad that he has. That he doesn’t think anything of it. That it’s been common enough that he assumes it’s okay. That’s one more thing about him that I don’t really understand. Something more to ask him, later. When he wakes up, and we have time…as soon as I can get over my guilt to speak of it. Get over my _shame_.

I promised him a place at my side. Food enough to eat. Rest, when needed. Peace, to calm his racing heart. An adventure to go on, with somewhere safe to come home to, if he would only place his trust in me, and follow.

Things that I had no right to promise…things that weren’t mine to give.

Then I ignored him. Forgot him. Abandoned him. Without the Bond singing his presence through my veins, I neglected to tell him the things that I needed to tell him about. Assumed he would know – as he had known from the start – every change in my mood and my intent and my heart, without as much as a word. Just as he _always_ had, from the moment we met. That he could follow my lead through anything, as close behind me as my shadow, with no more effort than casting a shadow took.

I was a _fool._

Then, _then_ , when he needed me in the most basic way that one person can need another…I did nothing. Sat back on my heels and watched as he lay there beneath my motionless hands. As he was _dying_. And I did _nothing_ …

No…that’s not true, and he’d be the first to say it. I _know_ that I _tried_. That I broke his ribs. That it didn’t _work_. That I made everything worse. That I failed. Failed to persevere, to _wait_ , to keep trying even when my efforts were not rewarded immediately. Instead of enduring the howling grief trapped in my throat to simply keep trying, I…gave up.

 _I gave up_.

Tetra saved him. Saved us both. Saved us _all_ , really, and now I’ve got the chance to thank her every day for the rest of my life…but I can’t bring myself to move from Kaya’s side. Can barely kneel next to his sleeping form without feeling entirely choked up and completely hollow, all at once. Can’t bring myself to leave, now that he’s here. Now that I can see he’s entirely exhausted, eyes bruised with fatigue, bones rattling beneath the blankets. Listen to the hush-hum of him softly sleeping in the hostel bed, despite being frail enough that continued hospitalization was recommended. Fragile. Vulnerable.

Alive.

Because of Tetra. Because she knows I love him. Because she loves me, and wants me to be happy. Because it was the right thing to do. Because of her own guilt. Because he deserves so much better than what he’s been given. Deserves that chance.

She didn’t even hesitate while I knelt before the both of them, frozen in my pre-emptive grief.

It’s been one week since I left him. Four days since I found them. Three days spent negotiating the terms and conditions of our continued survival, and paying for it. Every moment miserable, but necessary for me – for _us_ – to have this time, this space, now…and yet the only thing I can do is sink lower on my knees at his borrowed bedside, rest my head on my arms against the frame so as not to disturb the mattress, and gently, softly tangle my fingers in the blanket so I don’t disturb him as I listen to him breathe.

I just…need to hear him breathe. Just for a while.

Long enough that my own sharp, shallow, gasping breaths no longer overpower the gentle rhythm of his, slow and steady and sure in a way I’ve only heard a few times, before.

Alive, and healing. Healing from worse than anything he had to deal with before I intruded into his life…at least, anything he’s told me. Directly. I have my suspicions, have seen the way he sometimes rubs his arm, but I don’t really _know_. There’s so much I don’t know. So much that I almost never got the chance to learn.

He’s _so thin_ , now. Transparent. Worn to the point that he doesn’t stir when I choke on my tears. The doctors and healers have erased the blood and bruises and burns from his skin, leaving only bright, shifting tattoos and a few old, small, silvered scars, but I know they were there. That flecks of his blood and strips of his burned, torn flesh clung to my clothing, dried in place by the unforgiving heat of the desert sun.

I’ve bathed, since. Changed into the soft, baggy, pink drawstring pants and linen-white, blue, and orangey-pink patterned long tunic of House Ashai. Retained my sash, and earned a comb for my hair. Had my eyebrows plucked, beard shaved, called Telma from a stranger’s phone. Pawned Tetra’s engagement ring for shelter, supplies, the promise of transportation, and enough food for seven for the next three days. Long enough for the crowds outside the hospital to disperse, and long enough that Sheik will be fit to travel halfway across the country. To go _home_. Hopefully.

Travel by train rather than through the air, for more reasons than reduced cost. Reasons like relative anonymity for literally everyone else in our small party. Reasons like motorized vehicles not lasting long in a sand storm, even if there are three other drivers...and none of us have our licences on us. Reasons like Sheik’s still delicate ribs and a week of constant exercise and almost constant hunger ensuring a gentler means of transportation is needed. Less of a strain on his stamina. Less anticipated for me – a member of the nobility – and therefore less likely to be tracked. Easier to conceal just how many people are on board the cars. Cheaper, by far, than taking a private jet and paying for the silence of an entire crew, let alone using one of the Travel Gates.

Very few people whose loyalty can be bought will stay bought when a better offer comes along. Tye made that much explicitly clear.

None of the people with whom I am now sharing space qualify in that, thankfully. They can’t be bought, and their loyalty is beyond question, even before I turned over Tetra’s ring for appraisal and agreed to the exchange rates and repayment schedule, signing on the dotted line.

It hurt. A lot. But even with everything that taking down the Molduga brought in, we didn’t have nearly enough. The heirloom ring – technically forty percent of the resale value of it – made up the difference. All the difference, taking us from not nearly enough to barely enough, but enough, and that’s a simple equation to solve.

There’s some of that sale left, yes, and I’ve held on to _some_ of the Amber Relics I’ve earned beyond paying my dues to House Barta as a contingency. I will _keep_ holding on to them until such a time when my precious people are safe, or we need more food, tools, or medicine. After that, though…I’ll get her ring back. After that, well…the Goddess knows I haven’t been making the best possible choices available to me, even if I haven’t been making the worst ones, either. Risky ones, serving immediate needs, but…if I’d chosen differently…

…would Pirou be alive, if I’d given him my Rushshrooms at breakfast? Would Jules have her leg, her Shieldmate, if I had gone without that hint of added speed to my movements? I don’t – _can’t_ – know, and dwelling won’t change the past. My choices are my own, and I have to live with the consequences of them, even if they’re hard and I don’t like any of the options presented.

Some things, though, aren’t really a choice.

That much has been evident from the moment I was brought across the city’s wards, and had to choose either debt – which is gambling on my future – or death in days from lack of water and shelter from the sun. Wanting to live, I made the only choice I could…and a choice made under coercive threats to your life? Well, that’s not a _choice_ at all. Kaya’s made that much explicitly clear to me, before, but it seems I needed to see it first-hand instead of just listening to him. That’s my fault, too.

He’s alive.

That’s amazing. _He’s_ amazing. Just being who he is, he’s incredible, and beautiful, and I don’t think the way I feel for him is going to fade with time…that my love will weaken. Can’t fathom it ever happening, now that I know how deep his devotion runs. It just keeps getting stronger, with every breath he takes, even though our Bond is gone.

I don’t understand. He should hate me for what I’ve done to him – far beyond anything I unintentionally did to Saria or Ruto, and far, far beyond anything I’ve done in response to Mallar or Groose – and yet…the way he reached for me the moment I was in range, how tightly he clung…hatred was the furthest thing from his mind. Then I felt his tongue on my throat, and knew exactly what he was after.

Affirmation. Validation. Security. Comfort. Reaching for them the only way he knows how.

The painkillers and sedatives may have had something to do with it, too, but I’d like to think he was as happy to see me as I was to finally be allowed to see him. Tetra’s kept me informed of his progress, yes, and I love her for it, but it’s not the same as seeing him myself, as having him here where I can touch his skin. Where I can see his face. Where I can hear him breathe.

He’s _alive_.

We’re…going to need to talk. Again. Clarify things. All of us. Hopefully with him participating, this time, because even though my heart has been shattered into jagged fragments over the last week, I can’t say that _this_ piece belongs to him, _that_ one belongs to Tetra, _this_ one is for Malon. I just _can’t_. The fractures have only given the spaces between more room to grow…for me to grow, and fill them in.

I should…fill her in. Tell her why Regan keeps glaring at me like he wants to chew on my liver, even though he’s been unfailingly polite. Take the time to confirm where we stand, and plan where we go from here. I should. I will.

He’s alive…and I have work to do.

I wipe my face on my sleeve and steady my breathing, knowing that it won’t hide the fact I’ve been crying from the sharp eyes of any of the Sheikah on the other side of the door, and that Tetra will have most certainly heard, but it makes me feel a little more sure of myself, a little less tightly wound, better settled in my skin. Extract my fingers from well-worn fabric, smoothing the blanket back in place. Stand. Take one more look, unbearably fond, and close the curtain on the bedframe to keep out the light so my Sheik can sleep a little easier.

There’s so much left to do today, but…I’m learning to take my time, when I can, rather than regret acting in haste, later.

“Hey, babe, come here a bit? Tye has some ideas I think you’ll be interested in.” Tetra calls from the worn couch in the living area the moment the door snicks closed behind me. She, Tye, and Regan are hunched over the beaten-up coffee table with one mismatched leg, looking at a series of aerial shots of Sabak on my slate…ones that have been taken from a much greater height than the official broadcasting stations have put out, showing interesting patterns in the sand around the Tower of Hera and the remains of the Exiled Dragon’s Dune.

She’s right. I’m interested.

I don’t understand even half of what Tye and Regan are saying – even though it’s in Modern – but it’s a great distraction from the equal measures of my guilt and my grief to listen in as they try to figure out what the conversion rate of aetheric to kinesthetic energy would have to have been per Spirit Orb, or the peek crest of the Force amplitudes required to leave behind the kind of ruts and whorls in the sand just outside the city, given the normative composition percentages of the sand itself.

Quartz amplifies. Topaz electrifies. Calcium carbonate funnels but does not restrict. Clay and feldspar bind, but shatter when over-charged. Surface kinematics and directional velocity means that the seals making up the various shields and wards – definitely plural, but difficult to distinguish from one another after they’ve been used up – have warped explosively outward from their respective origin points, and thereby are puzzling to interpret.

They’re very pretty to look at, though.

Pretty enough that I barely register the individual movements of Tetra sliding closer to my side with every additional reference point until her head touches my shoulder. Somehow, my arm has found its way around her waist, as if that is where it naturally belongs. She blows cool air against my earrings – which she likes, and so I am definitely keeping – nipping at the lobe and jewelry together, and just like that, the temperature in the room has gotten undeniably warmer.

The two Royal Guards blink in unison while the conversation drops off immediately, and they glance at each other before Regan snorts and Tye smiles softly. They’re both looking better than they did even yesterday – sleep and food and the security of a sanctuary that Sorelia has plastered with protective talismans helping ease an invisible tension – but they’re still strained, still worn down, and I know that at least part of that is the forced proximity of the hostel keeping them at lease subconsciously on the job, unable to truly relax in our presence.

Unfortunately, for the next few days at least, there’s nowhere else for any of them to go. Sorelia and I are the only ones that can wander about easily, and there are already rumors about me.

“…I should start supper.” Tye muses, and gets to his feet half an hour earlier than yesterday, leaving Tetra and I curled up next to each other and half-drowning in the cushions on the couch.

“I’m going to check on Kaya, he’s due for another potion soon.” Regan isn’t as smooth making his excuses, but I can’t complain. Not when their departure means the most privacy I’ve had with my fiancée in weeks.

Sorelia’s working. Hina’s on guard for the next hour and a half. Nabooru won’t be back for two days, tagging along on an official exploration team for some recently revealed ruins as a representative of her House.

We’re alone.

The slate gets set aside quickly.

“Hold me?” Tetra’s soft hum has me shivering and squeezing just a little tighter, welcoming the familiar touch of her fingers on my skin. I nod, and am rewarded with a familiar weight, familiar warmth, pressing at first further into my side, then sliding sideways into my lap. Settling something inside me even as she settles against me, comfortable and secure.

Safe…or as safe as we can reasonable expect to be.

For a moment, the profound knowledge that I nearly lost this – lost _her_ , just as surely as I almost lost him – steals my breath away…but only for a moment. I really am very bad at waiting, and she’s _right here_. _Safe_ , and _whole_ , and _here_. Curled up tight in my arms, seeking solace where she can.

Far be it for me to deny her anything, let alone this. _Especially_ since it’s something I want, too. Something I’ve wanted for weeks. Something that we can share, and that grows stronger for the sharing.

The harsh ammonia scent of her hair has faded enough that I don’t hesitate to press a kiss against her scalp, raising my hands to undo her bun so I can run my fingers through her hair and free the delicately pointed tips of her ears from their confinement. The constriction beneath the tight binding has left them white, and releasing them has the blood rushing back, turning them the same shade of blush as the bridge of her nose.

I kiss that, too, and her forehead, and the wing of her cheek before she tucks her legs up to fit better on the couch and leans further back on the cushions for a much needed snuggle. And maybe more kisses, in a bit. I wouldn’t be at all opposed to that, if that’s what she wants. Just holding her is enough for me, for now. The solid, steady rhythm of her presence is nearly as good as a lullaby in how it soothes something hungry and wanting in the darkest parts of my soul.

I can hold her much better if I tuck my legs up as well, and trust my weight to the couch so she can sprawl across my chest at an angle.

“Mm, thank you, Link.” For the first time I can remember, the hand that brushes my hair aside, that cups my jaw, has callouses from something other than a pen or harp. Dry skin. A rough nail. I lean into her careful touch, and she chases after the space created between us to peck at my neck, quick and dry and affectionate. Tenderly taking what she needs, and giving me what I need in return.

We fit together like puzzle pieces, a tangle of limbs and love and comfort, secure in each other’s tactile presence in a way that uncoils the clenching in my gut and eases the tension in my heart. If nothing else, I’d like to be able to hold her like this for the rest of my life. Even without the band around her ring finger symbolizing a promise of just that, the words and intent behind it remain, and I take up her hand in my own to feel the weight of that oath and the warmth of her skin. Brush my lips against her knuckles. Kiss the tender center of her palm.

“I missed you so much.” The words rise unbidden, falling from my lips without waiting for the support of a steady breath, and I bury my face in her dry, bleached hair as if that will mute the longing in my tone. As if, by hiding my expression, I can hide how much she means to me.

“Oh, babe, I missed you, too.” She whispers, fingers slipping from my hand and curling feather light across my ribs, slithering against the fabric of the couch, and drawing firm around my chest. Securing my heart in place, where it is full to the point of a tight, sharp pain lancing through my veins. My wanting and my relief rise sharply in my throat. I swallow, hard, else surely it would all burst free of my body entirely, and shudder in her grasp.

The fresh spate of tears aren’t really a surprise when they come. I simply assumed that they would be my own.

“Oh, love.” With her on my lap, I barely have to tilt my head for my eyes to meet hers. Finding them glistening and damp, feeling the hitch in her breathing, there really is nothing for me to do but hold her close as we cry ourselves out.

After, once we’ve settled further on the lumpy cushions and wound up twined around each other like ivy and oak, I feel better than I have in ages. The last of the tension in my back and shoulders is simply gone, and the ache in my chest has shrunken and moved to the bridge of my nose and the corners of my eyes. I sigh, and hear the sound echoed by my fiancée, her breath against my jaw soft and warm.

Neither of us make any effort to move. It’s…nice. Despite the bone-deep fatigue, damp faces, dripping noses, lingering heat, and lumps in the couch poking uncomfortably into my back with everything else just meters away from where we lay, holding her – and being held in return – is nice. Good.

Really, really good.

Good enough that I forget myself for just a moment, and get clingy. Squeeze her a bit too tight. It’s a measure of her own distress that she lets me do it, though she places a single hand between us as a reminder of propriety and the perception of a nation we will be returning to, shortly. Some mild affection is appropriate. Evidence of anything more than hand-holding is not. Chastised, I relax my grip quickly enough that it shouldn’t leave bruises, and contort my spine to kiss her forehead instead.

“Sorry.” My words are more a burble than a statement, muddled and wet. “I’m just…tired. Forgot.” I apologize.

“I know. I’m tired too.” She admits, and I can hear it in every breath she takes, feel it in how her weight sags against me, see it in the shadows beneath her eyes and the downward tilt of her lips.

“We’ll…get through this.” I promise, having to rephrase the ‘ _we’ll be okay’_ that I was going to say. No one in the hostel is okay. There’s a long and difficult road to walk before ‘ _okay’_ is even a possibility.

I’ve learned my lesson about making promises I can’t keep.

“Mm. I wish…” She says, tucking her head against my jaw, then freezes and pulls back sharply. Worried, I relax my grip further yet and give myself an extra chin to try and figure out what’s gone so wrong as to catch her breath and make her heart beat double time. With her lashes clumped together over red rimmed watering eyes, still softly sniffling, she smiles. It’s not a happy look. “...I wished. I did. I _wished_ for this! I…oh, _Goddess_ , this is all my fault!”

This time, her tears are wretched, while mine have dried up in a numb, bewildered shock.

“I didn’t…I didn’t think…that…that this…I didn…n’t think! I didn’t!” Hiccoughing, gasping, tears falling unnoticed, eyes open but blank…I know what this is. Have heard someone make this kind of sound, have seen it in person, before. A panic attack, though Kaya is both quieter and less inclined to the twitching, aborted motions. Instead of withdrawing like he does, she grasps onto my tunic tight enough that some of the stitches tear, and in return I snatch her up and lift so that we’re both sitting and it’s slightly easier for her to breathe.

“Come on, love. Breathe. Breathe with me, okay? I’ve got you. I’m here. Breathe with me.” I murmur the words over and over into the sudden quiet, all the small background noises of the three other people in the hostel going still and silent beneath the inelegant stuttering of her distress. The rhythmic crisp slicing of a knife through vegetables, the clink of elixirs and potions in glass bottles being organized and used, the faint susurrations of fabric in motion against furniture, floor, or flesh…gone. 

Of course Tye and Regan have been eavesdropping on our conversation. I’d do the same – if only because of the thin walls and limited space – and Kaya is remarkably peaceful in sleep today, which allows them to hear _everything_. I can’t be mad at the Royal Guard’s continued concern, though I _could_ wish for a little better privacy, if only to spare her some of her dignity.

Instead, I hold her, and breathe, slow and deep and even, whispering all my love and devotion as she cries herself out, pushing herself through the attack to the beat of my heart and into coherency quicker than I expect. Only a couple minutes, and this had to have been building up since the first ashen embers traced across the sky.

Long enough for the sounds of Tye preparing an evening meal to start up again, at least, and for Regan to both wake and dose Kaya with something that makes him swear and shift around on the bed.

With the most fragile of my lovers being cared for by a brother, I take the time to work some of the firmer knots from the muscles of Tetra’s back, shoulders, and neck, and have moved on to essentially just petting her by the time she’s recovered enough to talk to me again.

“I didn’t mean to.” She rasps into my throat, wiping her face on my tunic and immediately realizing what she’s done, wrinkling her nose and huffing in distaste. I can’t really bring myself to care – the tunic already needs repairs, so a wash is nothing – and it made her feel better to do it. Makes me feel better to be here so she can. Where I’m supposed to be…and where I’ll need to be, as soon as I’ve slept enough to be capable of processing the last few weeks, eaten my weight in waffles, and gotten us all back home, safe and secure.

I’m certain that she’ll be happy to return the favor when it happens, that I’ll need it, and that, right now, I can be here for her in a way that no one else can.

Even if Claree had lived, she did…not excel at comfort. Not in knowing when it was needed, or when to break protocol to give it, or even how to distract Tetra from the things causing her distress. Despite knowing him for only a few days, my own Sheik at least _tried_ , though I have…not made things easy for him, since. I’ve learned from him, though. Enough to keep my attention on her, giving what assurances I can, and ignore the sounds of Regan trying to sneak by without being noticed.

“Didn’t mean to what, love?” I ask, hoping not to trigger another attack but needing to know what is bottled up inside of her, making her sick with the horror, guilt, and anger I can hear churning through the strains of her normally steady refrain.

“Summon the Calamity.” My love – my _first_ love – chokes out in clipped, half-snarled and half-sobbed consonants. “I have…have this…” Holds her right hand up between us. “…I _have this_. _Me_. I…” She shudders, curling up to press her face against my chest. “…it’s all my fault!”

“Well, that’s fucking ridiculous, your Highness.” Kaya grunts, shuffling on trembling legs to the closest chair, with Regan rushing to his side in case he stumbles. My Sheik moves like Gillian does on rainy days, but has more color than he did before his nap, which lets me stay still and comfortable under Tetra on the couch instead of rising to help. He whines a little in the back of his throat as he fairly collapses into the chair and the lack of supporting springs tip him further back than he was intending. “Ah, fuck, ow.”

I don’t think I’ve even been so happy to hear someone swearing repeatedly in front of any member of the Royal family, let alone my fiancée. Technically _at_ her. Yet another change having Kaya as my Sheik has brought into my life. Tetra doesn’t seem to mind, either, but that doesn’t surprise me at all. Not after some of the giggled conversations she and Malon have had after dessert at Nonna’s Pasta, at least.

Her vocabulary is…extensive…even if the expectations of polite society ensure that she doesn’t use certain parts of it.

“Kaya, may I?” Regan asks softly, solemn and serious.

“…ugh. _Fine_. Let’s get this over with, but don’t blame me if you don’t like what you find. Saints and _Sages,_ this _sucks_.” Kaya grumbles, his eyes never leaving Regan’s back as the Royal Guard returns to the bedroom. The moment he’s out of sight, Kaya turns to look at us – at Tetra – something painful flashing across his face before being smoothed into the normal cool neutral expression he gets when bitching someone out. “Now, as I was saying; how hard did you hit your head and do I have to go over the last hundred years of Hyrule’s history, or am I still drugged to the point of medically induced hallucinations?”

I’m getting better at reading him, at least a little.

“I don’t…think so? The nurse responsible for your discharge said that the last of it should be wearing off within the hour.” Tetra shifts, still snuffling, so she can face him a bit better, and I shift to not have her hip pressing directly on my bladder, but don’t let go.

“So I _wasn’t_ imagining you trying to take responsibility for the Resurgence of the Calamity? You didn’t _actually_ forget the whole purpose of your family’s existence? You couldn’t _possibly_ have completely missed the sudden uptick in your fiancé’s physical and aetheric anomalies? Definitely didn’t just _misplace_ the physical reality behind the entire country’s foundational mythology, right?”

“Wh…” Tetra squeaks, but Kaya isn’t finished.

“I mean, yeah, it’s been a…fuck, a definite period of time? This last while? But surely, _surely_ you remember life before everything went to utter shit? It hasn’t been _that_ long, _Utgei’sun_. The Calamity isn’t your fault, it’s just the way the system works. _You_ of all people should know _that_ much.”

“Of course I know how it works!” Tetra insists, her elbow digging into my iliac crest as she shifts. The small grunt I let out is more surprise than hurt, but she settles back down in response, and I wrap my hand around her waist as a reminder. “I have the… _this_! I have it! It grants someone their dearest wish! And I wished…” She snarls, though it quickly turns back to tears.

“You wished for the Hatred and Malice of an ancient Demon-god that swore a death-oath to always return with His last breath to return, in particular? Or was it something else?” Kaya asks softly over her silent sniffles, his magic thick enough in the air for me to taste and his scorn filled disbelief clear.

“I wanted to be free of all the reporters and paparazzi and the outdated etiquette and rules of conduct that hound my every waking breath and half of my sleeping ones! To get out of the palace without an escort! To eat a hamburger with my bare hands, and tomatoes and shellfish at all! To be free of my family’s blood-soaked legacy, and all it entails!” She gasps, snivelling, and waves her hand in the air for all of us to see. “And now…”

“Tetra…” I murmur her name into her hair. Why didn’t she say anything? Why didn’t she at least _tell_ me how unhappy she was? I could have…

…could have…

…I could have done _something_ , if I’d known. I _would_ have, even if it was something as small as inviting her over more often so she could relax away from the eyes of the court.

“Now, you’ve got phenomenal cosmic power, and an itty bitty living space.” Kaya snorts. “Doesn’t make the Resurgence your fault any more than it makes you an animated genie.”

“But I wished for it.” Tetra argues, curling into me again.

“News flash, _none_ of what you _just_ said you wished for happened, only the Calamity.” Shrugging and waving a hand in dismissal turns into a hiss and wince. “Ah, ow…the signs have been building for longer than your parents have been alive, _Utgei’sun_. So, sorry, not your fault.”

“I’m not exactly sitting in the palace right now, am I?” This time, she actually does sit up, and I make sure she’s stable before sliding forward enough to sit on the couch properly. “I should have been more specific, and then none of this would have happened!”

“By the hundred little gods…” Sheik groans. “You want to talk fault and responsibility? _Fine_. What the _utter fuck_ was going through your mind out in the desert, aside from _nothing_?! I _had it handled_ , **_Princess_**! You should have stayed on the tower, where you’d have been safe!” He snarls. Wheezes. Grabs at his ribs.

“Sheik!” Regan’s bark of anger covers the whine in my throat just long enough for me to swallow it whole, and just long enough for Tetra’s spine to straighten as she pulls her dignity around herself like a cloak.

“No, I should _not_ have!” She says, fully the pig-headed princess that I’ve loved since I was a child, and fell in love with as a tween. “You would have _died_ , Kaya!” Her leaning forward means I have space to stand.

“And what of it?” His calm reply keeps me frozen in place, and I am not the only one that stalls out, unable to move.

But only for a moment.

One that he takes as an invitation to continue.

“You disrupted the order of my casting, inserting yourself in the lines of _my_ pattern as the primary focus instead of reinforcing the groundwork I had already laid down. You made _yourself_ the keystone, and then proceeded to overwhelm my entire array by reversing the polarity, and _compelled_ the spell to function through sheer brute Force.” He ticks his points off on his fingers. Tetra’s dig into my thigh. “That, in turn, cascaded backward through my Magic Meter right down to the individual _saithr_ strands that make up my weaving, and _obliterated_ every single aetheric bond in your way. Which, in case you missed it, is what _actually_ killed me.”

“…Kaya…” I rasp.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Lord Korokshire.” Eyes flashing a brilliant and glowing red, he stands. Uses his height over me to command my attention…and Tetra’s. “If you – _either_ of you – really are so _fucking_ desperate to take responsibility for something in this massive, horrendously lactose-intolerant shit-show, then you can _damn_ well be at fault for it!”

“Sheik…” Regan begins, only to fall silent once more with barely a flicker of Sheik’s attention. I dare not look away to check if he’s just had his breath taken with the intensity of Sheik’s glare, or if he’s actually turned to stone where he stands. I physically can’t turn away. This…shouldn’t be as attractive as my body is telling me it is, and yet…

“Princess Tetra Anne Zelda Hyrule. _Sun’nan Utgei’sun._ Your arrogance _killed me_ …” He says, cold and flat and clear, letting the weight of his words find their mark, so focused that wisps of his magic flicker and flare in a deep purple mist around his too thin shoulders, billowing like the clouds of Korokshire’s earliest mornings. “…and it could have just as easily rebounded and killed _you_ , instead. You, Link, and _everyone_ on the dunes that day. _Everyone_ in Sabak. _You could have killed us all_. Do you understand that? Do you understand what that means? _You have a portion of the Triforce_. It chose _you_ as this Era’s Bearer, and the Spirit of the Hero lies in your fiancé…”

Wait. What?

“…so _do you understand_? I am _expendable_ , your Highness. My apologies, your _Majesty_.” He bows, deeply, fully, and formally. “If _either_ of you die, the entire nation is _fucked_ , so for the love of all that is holy and sacred _please_ , for just _once_ in your over-privileged, perfect little Hylian lives, _think_ about the consequences of your actions! You did _not_ summon the Calamity, but you _are_ the _only_ one that can _send it back_! _Do you understand me?!_ ” He asks, his magic swirling around him in smooth whorls and waves, blotting out the sun as the ripples keep thickening.

“I…” Tetra’s breath hitches. “…I…”

“…Truthspeaker.” Regan interrupts, holding out a bottle of green potion and a vial of some type of elixir and trying to bow at the same time. It should be awkward, should help break the tension in the air, but doesn’t. That takes Sheik closing his glowing eyes and breathing deeply, head tilted back, chapped lips downturned, and opening them again once he’s worked himself back down to reveal the lovely red that I’ve grown so fond of.

“Give me that.” He sighs, chugging both without gagging and handing the empty containers back. Regan bows again as he takes them, and stays down as Sheik lifts a hand to rub at his temples. “I’m…going to have a bath. Just…fuck. Yeah. Bath. Try not to get lost again until I at least smell _somewhat_ better than an overflowing bio-hazard disposal bin, please.”

The South-East GSC* hostel is inconspicuous, small, worn, cramped, crowded, and takes Sheik – Kaya – eleven unsteady steps to cross, hesitate in the bathroom door, and lock it behind himself without glancing back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aslkdjgafdlkhjgalkdjfdsaklgjhfadhdlfkjdklfgdasjhkldfjh  
> So. Uh. Next post-day (2 weeks from now) WILL be in Crumbs (or if I get my act together enough whatever I title the collection of related prequels) as an old injury is really, really acting up and I currently only have the use of my left hand so my writing goals of 500 words/day have really not been happening for the last week. Which means ch 3 of Above Hoarded Gold is mostly written, but needs a couple paragraphs filled in and then editing, and that is unlikely to happen.  
> If it does, then I'll drop both.  
> But...yeah. Probably not.  
> Apologies. m(_ . _ )m


	3. Grief is just love with no place to go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having bitched out every fantasy writer's idea of a perfect couple because he's too worn out to have any filters left, Sheik decides to isolate himself so he can have a crisis about it.  
> One crisis turns into multiple.  
> Picks up a few minutes before the last chapter left off, while Link and Tetra are necking in the common room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: body-image issues, flash-back fragments of trauma, contemplation of mortality, full-blown anxiety attack (to skip, stop reading at “Link helped.” and start reading again at “It’s fine.”)
> 
> CW: ANGST, fatigue, illness, injury, mild suicidal ideation, language, self-esteem issues, mild paranoia, self-soothing, food insecurity, dissociation, time-loss due to dissociation, references to masturbation, references to survival sex work with a side of dubious consent as well as enthusiastic consent.
> 
> As always, if I missed a trigger warning or a content warning, please tell me and I will fix it ASAP!  
> FC: 15

.

I’m kind of digging this whole “sleeping without dreaming” thing that first the drugs, and now my thick and chunky canned bullshit soup levels of exhaustion have been giving me. If I _have_ to feel like a cranky toddler and just happened to be put down for an afternoon nap, then actually sleeping until I wake up feeling somewhat rested as a result is both novel and unexpected. Not that I expected any of this, but, well…here we are. BOGO bullshit soup central.

Also known as some kind of hostel, from the worn and somewhat rundown, transient look of it. With four bunks built into the wall and my _konlega_ puttering around the room playing with a series of frustratingly familiar medications that I’ll no doubt be expected to swallow momentarily. That must have been what really woke me. Not that I’m complaining. I do feel slightly better, and he’s looking…competent. All grown up and doing that functional adult shit. Exhausted to the point where he doesn’t notice I’m awake, so I don’t give him reason to notice.

Stay sleep-soft and warm beneath clean blankets that smell like soap and not much else, watching him move through my eyelashes, breathing steady so as not to jostle my ribs, and contemplating drifting off again. It’d be easy. Too easy. Except I have no idea where Link or Princess Tetra are, and that prerogative is enough to ensure I won’t be falling back asleep, even if I can’t actually manage to move through the lethargy quite yet.

Despite feeling like a hotel lobby carpet instead of an untended gutter, I have to build up the motivation to gather enough fucks to burn for the energy to move, and that’s...less than ideal.

I’ve dealt with less than ideal before. I’d like to think I’m doing better this time, even if part of doing better is just knowing that the pain will dull in time. That I’ll get used to what doesn’t. That this, too, will pass. Eventually.

To be perfectly honest, this is not anything like how I imagined my life would be back when I was still ignorant of the many shitty ways one can meet with a terrible Fate. A few months before Eran…left. Days – hours, even – before he died, and I still don’t know if I would have preferred to have gone with him.

After all this time, weighing what few options I had and reliving those days over and over and over again, over _years_ , all the hypothetical ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’…I just…don’t know.

I really _don’t_ …except now I have a little more information to try and puzzle into the big picture. I know – viscerally – what it is to be a Sheik, long after the reason for my title disappeared. I know what it is to give my life for the Royal family, and know that I would have done the exact same thing even without my Princess being there. Her presence only made it more imperative that I fulfill my purpose. I know, too, that without Link forcing the healer’s hand, my injuries would have ensured I failed in the attempt, though I might have been able to turn aside enough sand for some – perhaps even a fifth – of Sabak to stay standing, even so.

I was stronger for her presence behind me and Link’s interference beside me, out there on the dunes. Eran’s little sister…and her fiancé. I am also excruciatingly aware that I wouldn’t have been able to stand between them and certain death if I _had_ been at Eran’s side, back then. _Everything_ would be different, had he lived.

I wouldn’t have, for one.

My lingering regrets and hypothetical ‘what ifs’ don’t change what is. They never have…but this time, I was there. And I am _glad_ I was able to do what I did, however many days ago that it was. I am also well aware that I wouldn’t have survived the experience _now_ if I hadn’t survived it _then_ , and proceeded to survive all the years after, as well.

Y’know. Logic. Can’t be alive if you’re dead. Those are two mutually exclusive states of being.

That I _did_ survive is what’s truly baffling. I’m…still not really over that. I’m alive.

A paradox, a mystery, and a miracle.

The present is an unexpected gift I’d never dared imagine and am not sure I really want, tangible as Regan’s supportive touch helping me sit up in an unfamiliar bed and letting me deal with the light-headedness, pain, and nausea that the motion produces with the near infinite patience of someone who’s stood honor guard for a couple dozen Royal galas. He helps me sit. Supports my weight when my muscles falter and fail. Holds me steady until I find my balance. Straightens my pain-sick, sweat-drenched clothing. Needs to turn his face away so I can’t see his expression, even though his patterns and colors speak of how my presence makes him feel so much more clearly than any facial expression ever could.

He’s doing very well at disguising his own nausea. Definitely time spent guarding Royal galas, then. If I couldn’t see how badly he wants to vomit right down to the individual fibers of his _saithr_ strands, I’d never be able to tell from the set of his shoulders and the softness of his jaw and his steady, certain touch. _Regan_. Real and whole and grown, nearly a head taller than I am and not nearly as perplexing as Tye. Tye, who is _married_. Who’d have thought?

There’s no denying that I’m definitely alive, now. That much is apparent, especially without the chemical cocktail keeping me brainless and docile. Injured, weak, and completely useless, I’m still pretty docile without it, but definitely not as brainless, and definitely alive. Yup. I’m alive. Somehow. After…that.

Breathe, Kaya. Just breathe. You can manage that much, right? Respiration’s pretty simple. Plants do it all the time. You can do it in your sleep without even thinking about it. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking entirely. Breathe. That’s it. See? You’re breathing, and all by yourself, too.

Which, if I’m honest, _fucking hurts_. And could have been avoided entirely, if Link hadn’t offered me that glimmer of something better. Of hope. If I hadn’t reached for it with both hands and almost no hesitation. I should have taken one look at Korokshire’s boundary markers and made him drop me off back in Castletown and just walked away. If I had, and somehow wiggled out of the whole scholarship indemnification thing, I would be prepping my final projects for submission and starting reviews for end of term exams with a single-minded ferocity in an attempt to ignore everything _else_ that the end of term meant.

My scholarships covered tuition, books, lab materials, and housing, and that’s it. You need more than that to live. Food, clothes, company. I needed more, so I applied for more, tried to get even the most unskilled and temporary types of jobs so I could afford more, but…well. My name and my face and my inability to commit to any shift at any time every day as needed while going to school ensured that my choices were limited, and freelancing licenses are intentionally, prohibitively, discouragingly expensive.

Much easier to avoid any reputable organizations and their associated licensing and union fees, dress codes, and regulated check-ins, and just negotiate on an individual basis, then run like the wind if the negotiations fall through. Not that they did, or at least not often. Not with my face and later reputation for my clients to bank on, and definitely not often enough to act as a personal deterrent against it. Not when it meant the satisfaction of a job well done and a full stomach at the end of the day.

When you’re starving and cold, fulfilling other people’s fantasies doesn’t seem so bad. There’s pleasure to be had there, in the fucking and the fulfillment both. In being exactly what someone wants, and doing exactly what they expect. What they asked for, in clear and specific terms. It simply took setting aside own dreams for a little bit of food, a little bit of warmth, and the illusion of the smallest bit of care. Foregoing hope for the fragile, tangible stability I had built myself, and trying to be content with that.

Failing at it, if I am honest with myself about that, too. Dying from it, slowly, if I am to be brutally honest…but at least it the pain of it could feel good. This just hurts, with no one to enjoy it and no reprieve in sight. No price put on the hollow ache in my guts. No recompense at the end of the day. No value to the throbbing of my blood in my veins. Only yearning. Only pain. Only need.

I’m so _empty._

I hope Kahti’s doing well. He at least _tried_ to fill the void at the core of me. It’s not his fault that I’m this badly broken, that I couldn’t be what _he_ needed…but it is his fault that he’s clung on for so long. I _did_ warn him, _repeatedly_ , but...

…then everything changed. Everything…and nothing at all. Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. But it changed for me. I had a choice, and I took the proffered juice box alongside the hand it that extended it, metaphorically speaking. Literally, I was trembling too hard to do anything but hold on.

In rejecting the hand Link offered me that day, I would be alive, yes, but not really _living_ , and so far from content that I wouldn’t be able to find it with a map and a compass and a quest marker pinned in place, showing me which direction to walk.

As it is, it appears I’ve spent over a decade running, only to wind up circumnavigating myself with every choice I’ve made. Beholden to and fascinated by a Hylian man, a willing pawn of the Royal Family. Again. Still. Trying to escape my fate seems as pointless as punching the ocean and expecting the tide to change.

That kind of change requires more hands than just my own. Dozens more. Hundreds. Thousands. More than I could hope to command. I couldn’t gather the courage to speak to the staff of either Korokshire or Whittleton Manors, and I technically was given the authority to demand _everyone’s_ attention in both cases. _Technically_ , I should have the ear of heir presumptive, if everything hadn’t gone to shit and he hadn’t died. I may never have been _his_ Sheik, am no longer Link’s, but I am _a_ Sheik, and we are not just a shield, but a support. A guide. A guard. A mortal companion to the highest mortal authority, those descended from the divine Hylia’s greatest folly… 

…if they’d only _listen_ , then maybe those thousands of hands could move to shape the future together. Move to where we might make a future where everyone has enough, and I can shake the hands of my neighbors instead of catch them.

It really all depends on the two people a half a breath and chasm of grief away from sucking face in the middle of the common room. Everything depends on them. _Everything_ , not just my abandoned dreams, fractured body, and broken soul.

Batting Regan’s hands away so I can walk on my own, I discover what lays beyond the bedroom door. And yeah, I am definitely the intruder, here, and yeah, they’re definitely making up for lost time.

I can’t bring myself to look away, and give them the impossible privacy they deserve.

They lay together, entwined and aching, finding comfort in each other’s touch. Soothing sea-foam green and warm sunshine yellow threads dotting their weavings, setting the room alight in a soft and rosy pink. Wistful joy, tender aches, sparkling grief, and a doting, cherished love. All Link’s pining has been worthwhile, then, and returned twice over. Not that I doubted Princess Tetra. Not after she spent a night in my arms, yearning for this very moment.

Embodying what I believe to be a textbook example fucking ridiculous, and that needs to be corrected immediately.

“Well, that’s fucking ridiculous, your Highness.” Like throwing eggs, I don’t really even think about it before I’m throwing down. My words are harsh in my own ears, but I accepted my descriptive name years ago, and earn it all over again with a single sentence. They both startle, and the pain in Link’s eyes means I need to sit down before my knees give out.

Shattering the fragile peace makes my chest ache so sharply I misjudge my steps and end up falling into the chair instead of sitting, graceless and loud. Disruptive instead of discrete. They both stare. I stare back, and speak. A well-trained pet of the Royal kennels, panting after the idea of having a _domine_ like a geriatric lapdog too old to play fetch, but still willing and able to bite.

They keep staring. She insists on believing a lie. It stings like a slap the side of the head almost hard enough to take me off my feet, and I’m already sitting down.

Fine, then. I’m so well-trained that I can be the biggest, baddest bitch in the room in this way, too.

He’s exhausted, and clearly too numb to process what I say. She doesn’t deserve my anger, but she certainly deserves my words. Every last one of them, and a number of them that Regan’s presence makes me swallow, never to be spoke aloud after the moment has passed.

And then the moment has passed without me giving voice to my ire or my envy, only the most salient of my points, proving the more embittered words unnecessary…though I may save some of the more _inspired_ phrases for a later date. Reduce, reuse, repair, recycle, re-think. I’m doing my part to save the planet one elegantly crafted epithet at a time.

…by the Triple Goddesses’ golden showers, Kaya, you sure are cynical today. What crawled up your ass and died without the courtesy of vibrating even once?

Oh yeah, that ‘ _it’s all my fault’_ pile of sweetly fermenting fresh baked Moblin shit pancakes smothered in self-importance and drowning in arrogance syrup. Like I’d swallow that fucking… _fuck_. I _can’t_ with them right now. They’re too cute to stay upset with, and my spite is as precious to me as my ability to See the pain my words cause them both…but it’s the truth. Ugly and raw and making me feel as filthy as I smell all the way down to the metaphysical level.

_Damn it._

Escaping to slump against the inside of the bathroom door is probably the smartest decision I’ve made today, and I’ve only been awake for like…an hour and a half, total.

Speaking of showers...

…

…there’s no showers? Or…no, there are nozzles, and that’s a showerhead wand attached to the hose which is vastly different from the wall-mounted ones I’m used to, but still a shower. Small lockers for toiletries next to a shelf of clean, folded towels and pegs to hang them on, with a basket for laundry beneath. Diagram instructions in both of Hyrule’s official languages for how to use the shower and…bath. There’s a bath. _There’s a bath!_

 _Fuck, yes! Thank you_ , Nayru!

Uncurling from my place on the floor with a half-swallowed grunt in consideration of my ribs and the generalized ache of literally everything, I make it all the way back to my feet under my own power, and lock the door. Giving the instructions a thorough once-over takes all of a hot minute where I can _feel_ my skin trying to crawl away from the sweat and dirt and the remains of medical-tape catching all the lint from my thrift store reject pastel camo-print sweat-suit. I’m almost scared to touch Princess Tetra’s braids, but anxiety can’t hold a candle to anticipation.

There’s a _shower_! I can be _clean_! There’s a _bath!_ I can float and be warm and held and...

…I _will_ _have_ to be careful. The way my hands tremble and I feel lightheaded after I manage to wriggle out of the shirt tells me that much; but as long as I go slowly and rest frequently, I _should_ be okay. Ignoring the mirror and everything it contains for now, I can’t help but wince at the string tying the ends of my braids closed to keep them from unravelling. Both sides are horribly tangled with the ends, and I wind up having to chew through the one on my left to get it out before I can let down my hair.

The smaller than normal braids leave a faint wave after…however long they were in, and not for the first time I wonder what I would look like if my hair wasn’t so straight, thick, and smooth. If I tied it up like some of the Gerudo do, or pinned it back like a Hylian to show off my ears. Different, certainly. Different enough to disappear off the face of the planet and assume a new identity, though? With the Goddesses’ favor splashed all over the right side of my face? Probably not, and there isn’t a chance in the Dark Realm that I’ll _ever_ voluntarily cut my hair any shorter than my hips.

I’ve gotten too used to avoiding sitting on it to waste all that effort, and…I _like_ the way it drapes. The way it swings when I walk if I haven’t tucked it in my belt or sweater. The weight of it, trailing down my spine and teasing at the back of my thighs and calves. The color of it. All the various shades of honey, from a darkened, antique gold all the way through a champagne so pale the strands are nearly white, though most of it ranges from fresh cracked beehive innards to classic butterscotch. The silky feel of it against my skin and running through my fingers, even as dirty, knotted, and oily as it is.

How many times have I simply sat with a brush or a comb or just my hands, playing with it and imagining that it was someone else taking the time to take care of this part of me, to touch me gently, without expectation or judgement? Fragments of memories of bigger hands and smaller, individually or a dozen at once, rush through my mind in jagged fits and starts, jumping from one to the next and ignoring the gaps in between. A pat on the head from Master Impa. Eran ruffling his fingers through the strands. Princess Tetra’s pudgy baby fingers curling around the ends and tugging just a little too hard.

Link, carefully combing conditioner through, speaking of his mother.

Me, overwhelmed by the very things I had been craving and the strange absence of accustomed pain, chasing him away.

Him, cuddled up with his fiancée on the couch on the other side of the door. Where he belongs, comforting her, because of an unwelcome reminder I personally delivered. Even if reality is objectively much more palatable than the fantasy she’s somehow concocted, it’s also much harder to deal with, because it _is_ the truth and not just catastrophizing.

The truth requires acknowledgement, thankless effort, and an understanding of all the ugly things that live inside of each of us.

I’m alive…and empty. I wonder how much of that is her fault, too? I wonder what else I’ll be asked to give, and if I’ll have it in me in the first place. If I’ll ever be allowed to rest.

…wouldn’t be the first time the Royal Family turned to necromancy to gain a guardian that never eats, sleeps, or stops their guarding. There’s a reason I never want to go to the Shadow Temple, even if I can See the dangers it presents to the unwary.

And she killed me. She came _terrifyingly_ close to killing us all. If she’d had a Sheik to bounce ideas off of _before_ showing up in the desert – and I _will be_ yelling at Tye about that, later, because _what the fuck_ man, you’re supposed to be _competent_ – then _maybe_ Raisin Face would have gotten her scapegoat, whoever pulls Raisin Face’s strings would have been temporarily satisfied, and…I would definitely be dead. Not leaning against a counter preparing to strip down, shower, and then soak until I resemble nothing more than a raisin myself.

Steeling my spine and lifting my eyes to look at the faint husk of my former self in the mirror for the first time since waking up and walking in here, I try telling myself that _that_ option would have been the preferable timeline. Stare into my own eyes and whisper in my own head that I would have been okay with my last breath being spent shielding a city rather than an individual…if I’d lived long enough to carve my Runes in the sand in the first place.

I would. Of that I’m certain. I was happy with what I’d done in those last moments before the world whited out and went still. Unfortunately, I’m even more certain that I would not have survived the full brunt of another round of Urbosa’s Furies, stalled by Princess Tetra’s interruption and prevented entirely by Link’s intervention, and therefore would not have gotten down from the tower still breathing.

There’s not a single mark on my skin to show any of it happened, either. Swept under the rug and hidden away, just like everything else. _This is your new family, they’re happy to finally meet you. You’ll be safe here, I promise. Quiet, boy. I’m nearly finished. Shut up, you’re fine. Stop complaining._ Not gas-lighting, precisely. No one ever _denied_ anything. It just never _mattered,_ implying that what happened – everything that happened – was fine.

My plastered on soap-bubble smile _you’re prettier when you smile_ shimmers at the edges and dissolves. Washed away. Disappears as though it never was.

I…don’t actually remember much between when Link broke my restraints and taking a deep breath that _worked_ – the way breathing is _supposed_ to work – beneath the medic’s hands. I remember more and more for each breath I managed, after. Mostly aching down to my marrow, and a thirst as powerful as any hunger I’ve felt before. I recall taking delicate sips of both potion and water the same way I’ve learned to go a small, slow mouthful at a time after more than three days between meals. The same caution evident in the way I’m moving, now, because I don’t have the energy to hide it.

Slowly. Carefully. Expecting unpleasant results, and trying anyway, because no one can or will do it for me, and it needs to be done.

I feel _somewhat_ better than I did before my latest installment in the _Overwhelming Urges to Nap and How to Give In to Them_ series. Still fatigued to the point that it should be my taxonomic species rank instead of _homo sapiens oculus_ , but not as foggy or as hollow. I _should_ check on my _saithr_ strands as I feel myself up from the tip of my toe nails to my hairline and back down again. Find out just how badly this latest one-in-a-billion chance incident has further damaged the warp and weft of my already broken weaving, even though I don’t really want to know.

I don’t, but I will. Later. When I’ve had a chance to fortify myself against whatever is there…or not. I’m… _scared_ of what I’ll find, and I’ve always been good at running away, but I’ll look. The demon you know, and all that.

It’s only when I can’t run, can’t escape, that there are…issues.

The tiny fluttering tendril of magic curling in beneath the door is sufficient distraction from stripping any further to start the least sexy self-exam I’ve ever given myself, though there are more than a couple debatably close second-place runner-ups. The _most_ sexy is easier to determine, and would definitely have to be that one time when I was seventeen and finally learning to break free of Rusl’s influence, though the details of which will stay between me, a weeknight alone, a bottle of pina colada lube, and the largest three fingers of my right hand.

Not that the caster on the other side of this spell needs to know that, or that they’ll get a free show for their effort.

The moment I freeze in place, the sinuously slithering thread does too, and then slowly retracts to be replaced by five sharp raps on the door. Knuckles only, rhythmic and efficient. Asking for attention, rather than demanding it.

“Kaya?”

Regan.

Not who I was expecting – not that I know who I was expecting, aside from no one – but still a necessary interruption that breaks me out of the trap of my own head. How long have I been in here? Surely not so long that someone else needs the space…I think. I came in to the bathroom. Locked the door behind me. Organized, sent out the invitations, and held myself an off-brand budget pity party. Reached the end of the liminal space between presentable and public nudity…and that’s it. I don’t _think_ I lost any time, but sometimes it’s difficult for me to tell without external references, and _nothing_ in here is familiar.

Nothing out _there_ is, either. Or is too familiar, but in the wrong place. Or both, at the same time.

Ugh.

“Kaya?” He asks again. I’ve been quiet for too long.

“Sorry! I’ll…” What? Be right out? Fuck that, I’m still gross, and now my hair is _literally_ everywhere. I’ll need to condition heavily, and it won’t be enough to make combing it any less of a bitch, but it may get the strands to stop sticking to everything through static adhesion. “…be a while longer.” Please don’t let him be mad. I don’t think I could defuse a birthday candle right now, let alone the complex swell of conflicted sympathy and outright horror that rises in him every time he looks my way.

I get it. I’m a walking abomination and an ongoing disaster. That doesn’t mean I enjoy him looking at me like gutting me will bring Eran back if he can only loop my entrails into the proper necromantic array.

“Do you need any help?” He asks, and I freeze so fast and hard I can feel my asshole clench all the way down to my toes, bare against the tiled floor.

He’s not Rusl. Or Barnes. Or anyone else who’s asked that particular question and used the admission as an invitation.

He’s not…the boy I remember, the family I lost. He’s grown up, and is his own person, and I wasn’t there to see it. We might as well be strangers.

He’s not Link, either, but I think I can trust him to do the right thing if push comes to shove. He’s been trying to help the entire time. It’s up to me to take the offered hand, so…

…do I need help? More than I want to admit. More than I probably know. More than he’s qualified to give. So much I don’t even know where to _start_ , and I can’t…I can’t bring myself to ask for it. To want it. Too many years spent enjoying the fantasy for itself, without holding so much as a glimmer of hope that I could actually have…have anything from my old life, before. To be able to think something as simple as ‘ _ah, wouldn’t it be funny to bounce an apple off Cloyne’s head’_ and not worry about going hungry because of it, or the confidence that ‘ _after I finish my work, I can go to sleep_ ’ without dreading the sound of an opening door or that my dreams will turn dark and jagged.

Just _seeing_ Regan – and Tye, who is _married_ now – is more than I ever thought I’d have again. Letters to Zuta and the occasional text from Rozel on burner phones didn’t prepare me for the reality of the rest of my _konlega_ growing up and having lives of their own without me or Eran in them. I mean, it makes logical, consistent sense, but…

…but some part of me didn’t want to let go of the world as it was. If it stayed the same as it was in my memories, then it couldn’t get worse. It couldn’t _end_.

Most importantly, it wouldn’t be _real_. Not really. I needed that glimmer of light, the hint of warmth in the darkness, even if I couldn’t touch it ever again, that faint, impossible chance just...

I never got to see Eran’s headstone, let alone his body.

I’m not sure that either would have helped, despite craving it like an addict craves their next hit. I couldn’t even bring myself to sign up for a public tour of the palace grounds, and I had the money for it saved up for years. Used it to feed myself during that lost year between Atun U. and Castletown U. while admin tried to get me to give up. Didn’t think to start saving again, knowing I wouldn’t be capable of keeping my composure without help that no one was willing to provide.

Link helped.

 _Fuck me_ , but Link _helped_. He _helps_ , even now. My _domine_. My second chance. My light in the dark.

He’s alive _._ As alive as I am, just a room away. With _Princess Tetra._ _Right now_ , on the other side of the door. Just like he wanted. Just like I said I’d help him accomplish. And I did. I…did. I…

_…I didn’t fail!_

Luckily, I’ve got enough practice that I don’t even need to cover my mouth to keep my tears as quiet as the dead as the reality of the last…week? Has it been a week?...washes over me in waves of hysteric, nauseating giddiness. Relief. Despair. Awe. Affection. Lo…overwhelmed _again_ , I clasp both hands across my face anyway, and let myself just…take a step back from reality for a moment. Detached and numb, I can acknowledge the tears and hyperventilating without really feeling either of them, muffling everything as best I can, and wait it out.

This, too, shall pass. Eventually. Just…don’t let them hear. Don’t make them upset. Head down, Kaya. Keep quiet. It was mostly luck, and you know it.

“Kaya?” Regan calls for me. Again. Calls my name. I shudder. Please, _please_ , Hylia, don’t…don’t let him come in here and…and see me like this. He’ll…fuck, he can’t. He _can’t_. I need to…respond. Speak. I… _shit,_ I need to…

“What?” …that should work.

“Locker number two. Code is three-zero-five-nine-two. There’s toiletries and a robe inside. Use what you’d like, and call if you need anything else, okay?”

“Number two, three-zero-five-nine-two.” I repeat back, toneless as early betas of text-to-speech, acknowledging him without daring to ask for more than this, which is already more than I deserve. I’m alive. Link’s alive. Princess Tetra’s safe. They’re together. We… _I_ …really, actually did it, and survived.

“That’s right, _konlega._ Enjoy your bath.” Rapping on the door again, I can see his shadow sink down as he sits in front of it and murmurs something I can’t catch to someone I can’t see. Guards the bathroom door like he guarded my hospital bed, like he’s been guarding Princess Tetra all this time. That’s…fine. For a given value of fine, anyway. Solve the rest of the equation, Kaya, now that you know what fine is.

It’s fine.

It’s not great. It’s not even good. But it’s a place to start.

Breathe.

Ow, ow, ow. Fuck, okay, maybe not that deep when you’re slumped over like the drunks outside of Ikana Bar after a mouthwash and hairspray week. Take it slow and steady. Stand up. Walk. You’ve got this.

There are open bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and a leave-in moisturizing hair mask in locker number two, accompanied by an exfoliation glove still in the packaging and a navy bathrobe that, while not new and comically large, is freshly laundered. There’s also alchemically imbued bar soap made with the finest Highland Chillshrooms, guaranteed to keep you cool through the day. A wide toothed comb. 100mg caffeine pills and Rushshroom extract, but no painkillers and nothing sharp.

Regan will probably need another dose soon, if he’s been awake for as long as I think he’s been awake. I’m just shit out of luck. Must have used it all up keeping Princess Tetra’s casualties down to one, but that doesn’t explain why my chest hurts so much, why my muscles all throb in time with my heart, and why breathing properly – deep in my gut, using my diaphragm for its intended purpose and not giving in to the urge to panic again – takes conscious effort, and causes a pervasive but mild pain on both the inhale and exhale.

Looking down at the clusters of fading palm-shaped bruises on my sternum give me an essay’s worth of evidence when I only asked for short answer. Recalling the murmured litanies of an endless stream of nurses reciting clinical observations gives me a truly extensive list beyond what I really need to know in the moment. This is just the broken ribs from receiving C.P.R., treated promptly and well, and – like my skin – _technically_ healed by standard procedures…but they still hurt, and I should take it easy for the next few days while my meat catches up to my mind and my mind catches up to my meat.

My _saithr_ strands, though…that’s a disaster and a half that will need to wait until _after_ my ribs and bruising and fatigue are taken care of to attempt untangling, because the fatigue is fucking me up without so much as a reach-around. I should probably just jerk off about it for some sweet serotonin to counteract it all, but I’m not…well enough for that to be a possibility, at the moment. Probably not for a long time. Just _thinking_ about jerking off is exhausting, and getting myself pretty enough that someone else would be willing to take me in hand is impossible.

Clean yourself up, first, Kaya. Everything else can wait.

In cleaning, I can also relearn the shape of myself. Find what parts of me still fit my memories and discover what’s changed. What new scars I’ll have to bear, and which ones I can hide. Something that I haven’t done in what seems like ages.

A side-benefit, I suppose, to not being in class right now. Pretty sure I’ve tanked my academic career beyond recovery at this point, even with the kind of money Lord Korokshire can apparently just throw around. Not that I intend to stop learning. I just…need to maintain my standing in his household and as his side-dish, which means getting my body back into a shape that isn’t so obviously mangled.

My G.P.A. may now be a dumpster fire, but I can compartmentalize well enough that I don’t burn myself on the thought any further, and set it aside for later.

One moment at a time, Kaya. You’ve got some serious bathing to do. Hop to it.

Dedicating the space to the Golden Goddesses’ glory takes but a moment, a quiet murmur, and casting the Seal of Sanctuary settles my mind for my coming ablutions…though my perivitae gland protests slightly. A fresh throbbing ache amid the dull roar of the rest. Still drained, then. Weak as a new-born kitten, despite having shown my claws. It’s uncomfortable, vulnerable, but compliance takes precedence to comfort, and comfort it but a scrub-brush away.

I need to be clean. I also need to be pretty, because there will be a reckoning the likes of which I have yet to see from my master and his fiancée, and I have nothing else with which to pay it. There is a price for every kindness as much as there is one every failure…and I owe her my life, but I owe him my _living_ , and I don’t know which will end up costing me more. 

I can only hope – another thing that I owe to my _domine_ – that whoever they send me to serve finds me worth the price of purchase, this time. That they _send_ me, rather than bring someone for me to service here. I will do my best, but my best hasn’t been enough for as far back as I can remember. Especially now, when I can see both the bones in my forearms moving underneath dry skin so dirty that it’s tacky to the touch, though some of the discoloration is the bruising leftover from my I.V.s.

Even with Regan guarding the door, I hesitate for a moment before removing my sweatpants, but only for a moment. The only eyes on me are divine, and I have no reason to be ashamed of anything regarding the state of my mortal flesh. I just have to fix it. All of it.

Having seen myself in the mirror, looked at what I have to work with, that’s a rather daunting task. But I’ve survived. I’m here. Each breath is a blessing, even if it hurts.

Just…breathe.

With proper posture this time, I inhale deeply to settle myself, and begin. Wash my face and my hands, rubbing the gunk from my eyes. Rinse my mouth to get rid of the fuzz on my tongue. Scrub every inch of skin from my hairline to the soles of my feet with the exfoliating glove, turning it a warm, rosy caramel brown. Find yellowed bruises and flaking skin where broken bones, burns, and open wounds once were.

Discover that the paler gold Triforce that was at the base of my skull has moved down to rest between the base of my shoulder blades and grown to the size of my hand, thanks to the mirror and my own paranoid prodding. Nothing new, and I can still cover it with my clothing, so hiding this mark just got easier, if much more personally distressing.

It’s where Princess Tetra was touching, when she _used_ the portion of the Relic that the symbol represents.

Did she miss? I…

…nope. Nope, nope, nope. Don’t go there. Not yet. Set it aside. Bathe.

Thankfully the wash bucket is small enough that it overflows quickly, helping to return my focus to the task at hand with the splash of water against my feet…but I need to rest for a while before I can continue, since my arms are too shaky and weak to bring the family sized bottles of cleansers closer without dropping them. I almost forget to comb my hair clear of tangles before wetting it, and it clings to my back and my crack from the dampness already on my skin, but I comb it…and then need to rest again.

Longer, this time, and I still feel drained by the time my hands have stopped trembling, as if I haven’t eaten anything for a full week rather than sporadically over the last couple of days. This is _Moblin shit_! I scammed a good bit from Mama’s, ate a real breakfast at Mr. Dragonborne’s table, and remember the steady discomfort of the feeding tube against my sinuses pretty fucking well for it not to have been effective for most of the time it was in. After it was out, I ate almost a quarter of a Gerudo sized breakfast, and nearly an eighth of the picnic lunch.

I shouldn’t be this tired, hair-triggered, fragile, or hollow. Should really check to See where all my energy is going, since it’s not going towards healing the way it should be. My bruises have stayed the same, except where my poking has made them worse. I _should_ check up on that. Really, I should.

It’s all I can do to shampoo my scalp and pick a bit more at the medical adhesive before I need to lie down on the floor and let the suds sit for a bit. Being capable of rinsing the various soaps off takes a lot longer and a lot more effort than I’d like to admit, and I don’t bother with detailing anything else before hauling myself as best I can into the Gerudo-sized bathtub where I can let myself _float_.

The relief rings through me like I am a gong that’s been struck, radiating through every nerve and making them relax. It’s not like sleeping, or the false and blurry calm of Kahti’s Magic Beans, and too kind to be any form of meditation that I’m familiar with, but…the heat of the constantly circulating water takes the pressure off my joints, keeps me warm without costing calories I don’t have to burn, encourages the energy in my _saithr_ strands to flow properly, eases the ache of breathing, and supports a nearly trance-like state of unthinking tranquility.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I stop thinking, only that I can let each thought go as it arises from the depths of my mind instead of clinging to them and inspecting them so closely that they cease to make logical sense. The water is nice. I like baths. Hurting just a little bit less is great. I’m sleepy. Warm. Comfortable, even if the overhead light is too bright. There’s some sort of seat built into the edge of the tub, large enough for me to curl up on and not worry about slipping beneath the surface. After I discover that, moving again is too much effort. I close my eyes for just a moment, and…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been brought to you by a heat bag, ibuprofen, physiotherapy, and the letter A for AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
> 
> Chapter One of The Muffin Method is up as the last part of The Calamity is Calling related AU storyline, so please check it out if you have the time! 
> 
> I'm...going to go lie down...for a little bit...not underwater, though...(x_x;)


	4. A real fun guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With everyone safe (sort of), Link goes and does some adulting, and inadvertently sets things in motion that no one could reasonably expect.
> 
> Reasonable expectations? Link’s never heard of them.
> 
> Now with 100% more puppy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBH this chapter could be rated T for Teen, if it wasn't for my vocabulary choices and relative reading levels. I'm pretty confident that nothing is worth a Trigger Warning, and Content Warnings are basically the tags for the fic and a little aftermath of a (super)natural disaster, so...iunno? If I'm wrong and you feel that I should warn for something, please poke me and I'll update to reflect that!
> 
> As a result of the lack of TW and CW worthy mentions, I am not sorry for the chapter title. I had to hurt you somehow. 
> 
> ...seriously though, it's a Link chapter and he's tired but pretty happy with how things are going now that Tetra and Kaya are safe, so he doesn't even in-universe PG-13 swear, let alone give one of the tirades that Sheik chapters can contain.
> 
> FC = 0

.

As much as I want to stay – curled up on the lumpy couch with Tetra at my side or just long enough to help Kaya to the table after his bath – duty calls. Insistent, blaring in an unrelenting refrain, its leading tone seeking some kind of harmonic resolution, and I am compelled to respond to the symphony of the city, taking up my instruments – sword, shield, determination – to play my part in the current movement.

As the only able-bodied, unemployed, non-Sheikah in the building, I am the most logical one to carry the tune, and direct what type of timber the day with take. There are things that simply _must_ be done, and while it is _possible_ for others to go out and do them, it is simply faster, safer, and easier if I do. So I will. I will do them to the best of my ability, so I may return as quickly as I can.

With Regan attending Kaya, Tye allowing Tetra to distract herself by interfering with meal preparations, and Sorelia’s talismans, Nabooru’s tokens, and Hina’s watchful gaze keeping an eye out over the entire GSC* hostel and surrounding outbuildings, I can breathe a little easier when I have leave my people behind in order to fulfill today’s necessary engagements.

As difficult as that is, yesterday was worse. I have to believe that I can trust them to take care of each other in my absence, and that they’ll still be here when I return, or I would never get anything done ever again…and there’s a lot that needs to be done.

One step at a time.

With one last glace behind me, I head out through a different path than the way than we arrived; walking through a network of tunnels that I have yet to truly begin to explore, following yet another set of passages hidden from the street level view. Very much like the way the servants move through the palace, or used to traverse Korokshire’s halls before all the renovations and upgrades made certain the whole complex complied with modern safety and construction standards. Dark and hidden and silent, they allow me to move unseen and unheard until I emerge into the daylight at the back of a…hm. A specialty mushroom shop, this time.

“Vasaaq’qa!” The proprietor greets with an insouciant smile, which I return with a greeting of my own and a wave before moving to inspect her wares.

I’d been hoping for a clothing store, like the first time I needed leave Tetra behind and go explore, but mushrooms are good, too. I recognize some of the proprietor’s products from last year’s harvest. The Hearty Truffles have been marked up considerably, but have lasted well and still smell good. The Razorshrooms haven’t travelled as well, but their broken pieces are still recognizable. I’d favor Korokshire’s produce, but Nabooru gave me a list, and she’s the alchemist. Ironshrooms, to fortify. Endurashrooms to increase stamina, and Stamellashrooms to restore it. The more gills on the caps, the better, and as few stems as possible, because she wants to make compounds with them instead of simply cooking everything to reveal their beneficial properties.

The proprietor lets me linger in the air conditioning for a good while before realizing I’m actually interested in making a purchase.

“Anything I can help you with?” She asks in clear Modern Hyrulean, and the spirit of puns and mischief overtakes me now that there’s room for something aside from grief and worry.

“Yes. I have a couple things I’d like to get.” I smile, and find that I really mean it. “But I’ll need a bag or cord or something as well, since my pockets don’t have… _mush-room_.”

She laughs, and helps me pick out the right weight and type of everything on Nabooru’s list. I get a packet of plain Hylianshrooms as well, because they’re on sale. Tye will be able to cook with them, and the bag of dried produce doesn’t weigh me down much and gives me a visible excuse for me to have been in the store before stepping into the crowded street.

Awnings and windows and simple blankets on the ground do brisk business right outside major brand-name storefronts, merchants clapping and shouting and even singing to entice customers to come, look, try, isn’t it wonderful? I can scarcely go more than six steps before something new catches my eye, some whistle or call makes me turn my head, or the riot of colors leaves me breathless and dizzy and completely fascinated.

The market is utter chaos, and I love it, taking the time to flirt with some of the shop-grandmas and tease the shop-girls, finding that there’s an undertone of forced cheer and false calm with very little effort and no questions needed. That undertone echoes in the voices of everyone nearly everywhere I go, and gets louder the closer I get to my destination.

There are other signs of trouble, as well.

The banners, flags, and awnings keep the sun from beating down too hard, though the prevailing wind is stifled by frequent corners and close quarters…and more so by the piles of rubble and barricaded buildings that have been deemed unsafe, thanks to the collapse of the Lines that put Sabak on the map in the first place. The collapse that I – indirectly – helped bring about, though ultimately it was the decisions of the city council pressuring Mistress Shabonne that led to that point.

The mismanagement makes me angry. Do the city officials not talk to their citizens? I haven’t seen anyone aside from emergency services and the City Guard interacting with the people they’re supposed to serve. There _should_ be a plan for a city-wide state of emergency, and I haven’t heard so much as a whisper of relief. You’d _think_ there’d be water supply stations every few blocks, at the very least. There would be in Castletown within the first few hours, and Sabak is a border-city on the furthest South-Western edge of the country, but it’s been _three days!_ Where are the city crews, the infrastructure maintenance trucks, the plumbers and electricians and thaumaturgic architects? Surely three days is long enough that _someone_ could respond beyond local community organizations? Even the Hyrulean Forces Rapid Relief Teams could have been assembled by now? Three _days_!

The destruction is _everywhere_. Not a single building has escaped unscathed, though this far from the epicenter most have sustained only superficial damage. Cracked corners, crumbled moldings, warped awnings, broken wards, downed communication towers and the like. Closer to the Tower is another story, and the space in-between isn’t great, but…it could have been much worse. What it _is_ is bad enough.

Seventeen deaths. Over three hundred injured. Monster attacks within the city walls adding to that tally by the day, while the City Guard – no sign of the A.R.G. that I know are stationed here – tries desperately to keep their people safe. Escorts the fire brigade and ambulances. The death of the Molduga and the monsters I killed before it saw me free the debt that put me in their ranks, but I can’t help feeling as though I should be working alongside them still.

They’re _doing_ things, even if their recruitment is more of a conscription than anything else. And they’re doing it well. That leaves me feeling conflicted…but they aren’t the only people trying to help, just the most easily recognizable.

I could go back.

If _nothing_ else, going back would give me guaranteed work that would help put a little bit better food on the table, and the tools to do that work. Officially. Technically I’m still using a City Guard sword. A promise convinced Benja to let me borrow the Soldier’s sword and shield for just a little while longer, and pawning Tetra’s engagement ring gave us enough survive _and_ enough to leave, but I’d still like to do better. More.

I have to try a different way, first, though. Yesterday wasn’t too bad, even if I didn’t make as much as I would have with one monster hunting expedition with the City Guard. Yesterday, I learned where to go and what to do and who can be trusted to uphold their end of the bargain. I can do better, today.

The Gerudo may have more experience with local monsters than I do, but the journey here has given me more experience with monsters in general, and I’ve been holding a sword almost as long as I’ve been strong enough to lift one. I can _help_. With almost anything. I just need to know how. I _want_ to help. It gives me something tangible to do…and has worked as a wonderful distraction. I can’t fret over my Sheik or hover over my fiancée or daydream about hiking around the Regencia River with Malon if I’m busy fighting and trying not to die, and the extra income is welcome.

We _do_ have enough.. _._ to survive. Barely, with next to no wiggle room, but _enough_. That doesn’t mean there aren’t a number of purchases that would make life much nicer in the meantime, creature comforts that I’ve taken for granted like having more than one change of clothes, and the pawn shop needs regular payments to keep from selling Tetra’s ring.

I _will_ get it back for her before we have to leave, and that means doing the work that I came here to do and hoping that the pay comes through. Even if it doesn’t…the work is worthwhile. And needs to be done, but…now that I _need_ the money, there’s a tension crawling in the back of my neck that keeps me constantly aware of just how much everything costs and how much effort is expected per rupee and…well. I’d probably be doing some of the same things even if we didn’t need the money, honestly, for as long as we stay here, but not all of it. Definitely not all of it.

I really need to give Ulli a raise the moment I get back home.

I completely understand that there’s always work that needs doing, regardless of a pay-scale, and I’m starting to understand that one isn’t really reflected in the other. I’m starting to _intimately_ understand that. On a personal level. It’s distinctly unpleasant, and the path that those thoughts lead me down is much, much worse. I _can_ find work. I _will_ get paid. We _have enough_. Barring any other unforeseen emergencies, we simple must endure some discomfort for a couple days.

Very few of the people that I meet at the corners or pass on the street can say the same. With the Lines gone, the entire city is in a state of emergency, I can’t _help_ overhearing how there is no certainty to be found, none of the people speaking knowing if they are safe or when it will end.

I hear what some are willing to do in the hopes of finding a safe place to sleep tonight, and it hurts. Those words mean that it takes everything I have to hold on to the little cash I have for a worst case scenario, and not push my last three rupees into their hands…and that makes me feel guilty, and selfish, and sick.

I also can’t help but finger Kaya’s Silver Scale as I reach the end of the awnings on this street and turn the corner onto the same road I was at yesterday. It’s a bit emptier today – in that I can walk down it without having to worry about unintentionally bumping into anyone else – though that could very well be due to the _type_ of people here just as much as the need they are trying to fill.

Medics, soldiers, mages, cooks, construction workers, porters, hunters, and trappers. Problem solvers and helpers, every last one, though individual methodology varies wildly from one to the next. Organizing themselves, since only the Heads of Houses Barta, Ardin, Ashai, and Isha have moved from their compounds or done anything to help the people right outside their doors.

That’s only a _third_ of the Council of Houses, and none of them representatives of the current Chieftain’s House. If I were…but I’m not. I have no partners, no group to work with…but I know what I would have done, were this Castletown, or Purdubois, or even Korokshire itself. I’m in Sabak, though. And I am here to work.

I am not strictly here to work alone, either, so I pass the postings and petitioners specifically seeking either medics or soldiers, and then walk most of the way by the mages as well, turn, trot down the side street until I am almost in the space for hunters, and set out my token – from Nabooru’s House, technically – then turn to the posting board, pulling out my slate to help translate.

 _Seeking a party of four to six able-bodied individuals to assist in the recovery of goods buried by rubble in the Isha District…_ no, too many others to organize by myself, though I’d join if a trio needed a fourth to make the minimum requirements.

 _Needed: one individual with a background in security and at least ten years of experience to…_ not qualified.

 _Temporary worker required to cover maternity leave in…_ we won’t be here that long, and I am _not_ prepared to stay behind while Tetra and Kaya go on ahead, so no.

 _Required: six able bodied workers who speak fluent Modern Hyrulean needed to escort VIP individuals from Sabak Regional Travel Gate to…_ for tomorrow. Possible. I really don’t know the city well enough yet, but Modern is my first language, and I’m starting to be okay with the tourist version of Gerudo. I put a pin in it, and keep reading.

 _Offering a reward for Amber Relics 4x market value, call RelicHunter at…_ and that one screams scam. Possibly an attempt at kidnapping, given the obscurity of the address, but definitely barely veiled robbery of whoever falls for it.

There are a lot of other postings, but as I scan over requirements I find very few I can meet…or that I’m comfortable fulfilling. Anything with a ‘discretion required’ or ‘non-disclosure agreement is non-negotiable’ has my hackles up, and calls for an immediate rejection. Others, I am simply uncertain. Technically, I _think_ I could do them, but…I’m not sure. The more of _those_ I read, the more reluctant I am, until I come across one that seems proper, quick, and, well, _safe_.

 _Lonely lady looking for a good time with a cunning linguist. Call with license number, photo, and clearance tests from no more than two weeks previous for service, kink, limit, and fee negotiation_. I’m disqualified on a number of fronts in that regard, but the clarity of this one has me wary about other, less stringent postings. It also makes me wonder, curiosity sparked, but for personal reasons only. I make a note to follow up on terminology later, and move away from the postings boards to the next block over where petitioners can approach for assistance directly.

There’s some interested glances before I even line up against the wall to listen as residents explain their problems to another woman in an unfamiliar House’s colors – a blue nearly as pale as House Ashai’s pink, with traces of gold thread in the patterning – and I understand. Really, I do. It’s unavoidable. In a sea of mature, competent, tall and relatively intimidating Gerudo _vai_ , a short Hylian _voe_ stands out. They aren’t subtle.

No one whispers quietly enough that I can’t overhear, and there are a _lot_ of whispers. Snickering. Speculation. Rumors. Some of which are true, most of which are dismissed out of hand. Ironically, those ones are the closest reality, but that irony tracks with most of the rumors I’ve had to deal with since Tetra started playing with me by choice rather than simple proximal association.

Some of those rumors call me by name, with surreptitious glances in my direction. I’m…no longer sure that the notice or recognition is a good thing, so best to ignore everything as though their words mean nothing to me. Play up my ignorance of what they’re saying, even if I’m understanding more with every interaction I have. Putting on a cheerful but vapid face has my neighbors relaxing, and lets me listen without really having to respond.

Most of it is the kind of thing I want to hear. The when and where and how of what needs fixing. What resources and personnel are needed to complete the ever-spiraling list of tasks, order of precedence, and estimates of where in the chain of priorities and possibilities those tasks might fall.

Water, first. Shelter from the harsh desert elements. Food. Medical aid. People over possessions, for the most part, though the number of petitions for people has dropped off sharply from where it was even yesterday. As mismanaged as the official response from the majority of the City Council has been, the helpers are getting it done. Slowly, piecemeal, but it’s happening.

As new arrivals and petitioners pass me by, the subject matter changes to gossip and speculation. Some of it is rude, and some of it has me blushing. I can avoid visibly reacting to any of it through the sheer amount of practice I’ve had with paparazzi at public events with Tetra and Malon, but I can’t entirely avoid paying attention. The whispers spread around me, rippling out through the crowd and surging back.

I listen. The rumors fly.

The one where I’m simply a look-alike attempting to cash in on my features is entertaining, because it relies on “Lord Korokshire” being a useless snowflake who wouldn’t know real work if it punched him in the face, and the speaker is more than willing to do the punching. After yesterday’s workload, the organizers know that I don’t shirk in my tasks, and I have callouses on my hands, so logically, _obviously_ , I must be a fake.

There are a number that have nearly clocked Tye and Regan, but Sorelia and Hina’s presence has thrown them clear off the track and into the woods. The one where I’m actually a Sheikah, too – using forbidden illusory magic to change the color of my eyes and the shape of my ears – is deemed ridiculous by the listeners immediately, and that’s a relief because it means the assumptions behind Tetra’s disguise are holding up.

The one where I snuck into Blessed Mercy General Hospital and took care of the witch that caused the sand-slide that destroyed the Lines is at once precariously close to the truth and wildly mistaken about what actually happened, depending on what the speaker means by “ _took care of_ ”, and I have to actively resist saying anything that would end up with a mob outside the South-East GSC* screaming for blood. Given the general opinion of the A.R.G. and by extension, the Royal Family, I’m not even certain whose blood it would be.

I’m a stranger here, and don’t know nearly enough to be able to act foolishly. It’s easiest for me to just…not say anything at all. About any of it.

Yesterday that was a lot easier, when I was simply a stranger in their midst. A man – already unusual, in this part of the world – and a Hylian, in House Ashai’s colors, with a sash of weapon proficiency from House Barta, and a comb for kindness from House Isha that barely stays in my relatively short hair, courtesy of the Zuna that drove the barges of City Guard out to surround the Tower of Hera in the first place.

So I do what I dislike doing the most, and wait.

Now that I can just listen to what’s needed rather than trying to translate and interpret the translation, I don’t have to wait long to find a petition that I can fulfill, with a petitioner willing to employ me despite my smaller stature…or maybe because of it.

When I see the hole in the rubble that she wants to lower me into, I know for sure that it’s _definitely_ because of my size and not my skill set. I may even be too big...it’s an awfully small hole. I have to leave my sword, shield, and pack to the side of the darkened maw, trust my weight to a single silken cord, and hold a torch in my teeth – the magic stinging my tongue the entire time – so I can see where her precious Richard has gone.

The pit smells…pretty bad, honestly. Bad enough that my being Hylian might also be a factor in my favor, because I can’t imagine any Gerudo being able to breathe in this level of funk in without passing out. Luckily, it’s pretty easy to avoid stepping in any of the visible mess, and I don’t have to explore very far. The building collapsed outward for the most part, just around the entryway, leaving the living area, kitchen, and what looks like most of the bathroom intact.

“Richard!” I call, and start my search. I’m not entirely certain what I’m looking for, precisely, only knowing that he knows his name, and will come when called…if he can. My client is very invested in that particular outcome, and I really don’t want to consider any others. The darkness and the smell could be hiding a lot, and I don’t want to think of the size of the rat that would leave behind the kind of mess that is causing the smell in the first place. It would be huge. Monstrously so. Probably a Corruption, if it is. I can’t help but think that I really should have brought my sword with me, somehow, and call out a little more insistently. “Richard!”

It turns out Richard is a white West Highland Terrier of an illustrious lineage, and that when he is over-excited, he runs very, very quickly. He’s dirty, and hungry, and very, very squirmy, but his belled collar makes him easy to hear and easier to chase. He’s also kind of adorable, and gives me plenty of puppy kisses once I finally manage to catch him up in my arms and tug on the rope to be hauled back up.

With Richard safely back in his mummy’s arms, my first job of the day finished, I am rewarded with such immense Gratitude that the crystals feel warm in my hands…though that could just be due to where my client was keeping them. She doesn’t have any pockets, and wasn’t carrying a bag, because apparently such things aren’t needed when there’s a perfectly sizeable, natural, 100% organic space down the front of her shirt.

The crystals are…damp…but worth more than I was expecting when I hit up the money-changer at the corner of the market on my way back. Checking the position of the sun and the emptiness of my belly, I should have time for one more client before I have to head back, as long as I’m hired quickly and the task is simple and near-by.

...except I really don’t want to. I made almost as much as Sorelia does in half a day just for rescuing an admittedly charming, but entirely spoiled show-dog, and today has…not been easy. I still want to curl up next to Tetra and around Kaya and sleep, but now I want something to eat before I do it. I could head back early tonight, get a good meal and a good sleep, and head out early tomorrow. I could.

I should try for just one more job. Between _could_ and _should,_ I know what option I’ll end up choosing. They’ll both be there when I get back, and Tetra’s ring hangs in the balance. I’m well aware that it’s not critical, or urgent, or _needed_ in the grand scheme of things. I am. It’s not a life. It’s nothing that can’t be replaced. It’s not even the promise itself…just an object that has sentimental value. And monetary value. Tetra gave it up for a very good reason.

That doesn’t mean it’s not important…doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. I gave it to her for a very good reason as well. It may be something small, and physically replaceable, but it _matters_.

Not to mention that Lovers Day is coming up soon. After everything that’s happened, I’d like to reaffirm that she’s the greatest gift she could ever give me, just as she is, and that I’d like to reciprocate. To give myself to her. To get to discover what that means for the rest of my life. So I’d like to get her ring back, for the promises it represents.

She doesn’t need to get me anything in return. Ever, but specifically now. She gave me Kaya. He doesn’t need to give me anything, either. He’s _alive_ , and that’s enough.

I _should_ get something for him, though. And Tye should be able to give something to his wife. He _has_ to rely on me to provide for his needs, it’s too dangerous for anyone but myself and the very Human looking Sorelia to go out.

That means I need to work.

I go back towards the line of petitioners still waiting to be heard, intent on returning to the same space I left, except one of the people in the line gives me pause before I get anywhere near the corner of the road. A younger woman, panting, pale and sweating in the ambient heat, clearly struggling to stay on her feet in order to have her petition heard as quickly as possible instead of going through the paperwork to get it on the posting board sometime in the next couple days.

It’s none of my business to ask what’s wrong with her, though something clearly is despite her youth and relatively healthy appearance. Mom looked fine up until the last eight months. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t struggling. I’d been brushing her hair for her for a year at that point, and kept brushing it after. It helped us both. I helped. I _can_ help.

I _like_ helping. It feels like it’s what I was born to do.

“ _Good evening, Mistress.”_ Keeping my voice soft and hands open and away from my weaponry, I make certain that every syllable is clearly enunciated and directed at her, and her alone. “ _Is there anything I can do for you?_ ”

She startles a little, then smiles at me, and explains her problem.

There’s…absolutely nothing I can do to help her with her petition. Nothing at all…but I can take her place in the line-up so she can sit in the shade and take some of the pressure off a recently healed crushed vertebrae. Reminding me that healing magic works at the cellular level incredibly quickly, but it takes a while for the healed person’s brain to catch up. Reminding me that Kaya’s been without any painkillers since this morning.

That means it’s been hours. The greater part of a day, even if he’s – _hopefully_ – been asleep for most of it. I can’t distract myself from the thought in any way as I stand and wait for the line to move. Take three steps for every one the Gerudo lady in front of me takes. Sip from Kaya’s Silver Scale every time the line shifts forward so I don’t get dehydrated. My bladder isn’t full by the time I switch out again and get paid for my time, so I know that I should be drinking more in general…and that I’m hungry, not just thirsty. Lunch was a long time ago.

Whatever Tye’s cooking for dinner will taste even better because of it.

Heading back to the GSC* hostel, I make a quick detour into a Kotake’s Pharmaceuticals with the twenty-eight rupees my last job got me. The two Rupees I spend on a small bottle of naproxen won’t make much difference paying back the pawn store, but the pills _will_ make a difference in Kaya’s comfort level. The single Rupee I spend on a foil-wrapped condom with a single-use lube packet won’t be put to use any time soon, but I promised, and so I’ll carry it with me, just in case.

Undyed paper for Sorelia’s talismans. Cream for Hina’s eczema. Melatonin for Regan. A reusable heat-pack for Tye. Lemon drops for Tetra. Small things that make life just a little easier, a little more comfortable, and all well within my self-appointed twenty-Rupee limit.

A pint of Dahlia’s fresh-picked wildberries for everyone to share as desert is another six Rupees, but with the way Hina’s eyes light up – literally glowing like a cat’s in the low light as I cross Sorelia’s wards without triggering any of them – I count the treat well worth the cost. She’s worked hard today, without the pay-cheque at the end, and had to do a lot more waiting than I did. It was basically all waiting, which must have been horrible. She deserves something nice.

Sorelia is slumped over on the kitchen bench with her head on the table, watching her husband put the finishing touches on our meal with a smile on her face. Tye accepts my contribution with a nod. The other three people in our little band are all in the bedroom and fast asleep, so I’m careful to be very, very quiet as I take off my gear and wind down for the day.

I’m not quiet enough to keep from waking Tetra, though. I would feel guilty – she needs her rest just as much as anyone else here, and the beds are not exactly comfortable – but she can’t have been sleeping too deeply with Sheik and Regan in the room. She’s always been such a light sleeper that she must have been more exhausted than I thought when I left for her to be resting at all, and I’m glad that she’s managed to doze for a bit. She obviously needed it.

My bones are starting to ache with the need to lie down, so I obviously need it, too, but I can wait until _after_ I put something in my belly.

The two _esclavin_ are curled around each other like they fell that way, Regan shielding Sheik from the world with his body, and I’m just as glad for that as I am that Tetra got to have a nap. Kaya sleeps better with someone next to him, and he needs to rest in order to heal. I’m…not jealous, surprisingly. Envious, yes, because I want to snuggle with my Sheik and have a nap with almost everything that I am, but not jealous. There’s nothing here that I can’t have, and I know for a fact that if I asked, Kaya would cuddle with me, too. It’s simply that I wasn’t here, and Regan was. That’s all there is to it.

Neither of them snore, but they’re also not completely silent, either. The faint hush-hum of their breaths, the soft beat of their hearts, the shifting rustle of fabric as Regan twitches and Kaya burrows closer all help me to shed the worry I’ve been carrying with me all day, and set it aside as easily as my sword and shield.

I’m more grateful for that than I can meaningfully express.

I am also well aware that, despite the image of peaceful calm they project, both of them would be a threat, were they foes instead of friends. Even as exhausted and worn as they are, I know they would fight if they needed to. If either Tetra or I asked them to. They’ve followed us across the country, already, fought beside and for us _without_ being asked, so if we asked…they would.

I don’t want to have to ask them to. Either of them, but especially Sheik. _My_ Sheik. He’s done enough. He’s…

“Mm, hi babe.” Tetra whispers, shifting in the low light, turning towards me. Her voice warm and soft in the low light. “Welcome back.”

“Hey, love.” I whisper right back and contemplate taking off my boots. They’re not the best fit, and chafe at my heels, but I have no idea when the carpet was cleaned last…if ever. “Supper’s nearly on the table, if you want to wash up.” Changing for the most formal meal of the day just…isn’t possible right now. Not when we don’t have clean clothes to change into. There’s a reason I wanted to go to a clothing store, earlier…though I have no idea how I’d be able to afford anything appropriate, given _where_ we are, and... 

A problem for later. Not _too_ much later, but…later. I’m too tired right now to worry about that as well.

“Mm, I do. Thank you.” She yawns, and slips from the bed with a faint slither of the faintly itchy sheets against her skin. I can’t help the blush that blossoms across my face at the sight, unused to her garments being so casual as to expose any part of the thigh, even though I’ve seen her in nothing at all before this. Repeatedly. Enjoyed the intimacy of it, her sensuality, very much, every time, but…it’s different, like this. Less aloof. More real. More…whole. I like it.

Faintly salacious. I like that, too.

I like her so much.

The gentle pad of her socked feet transitioning from a faded rag rug to shuffle against the cool cement floor gives me enough warning to open my arms, and she tucks herself against me to rest her head on my shoulder, sleep warmed and pliant.

Stays there, and lets me breathe her in until our hearts beat in tandem.

“Mm. Pants.” She hums eventually into the darkening room, sounding disgruntled, and I laugh and let her go. That’s one of three taken care of, now for the other two.

Regan’s been awake so long that I’ll let him sleep, but Kaya needs to eat, so as she tugs on enough clothing to be decent I move with enough deliberate noise to wake him up. With how he’s curled into the other former _esclavin_ , extracting him without disturbing Regan might take long enough that Tetra will have time to wash up before he’s awake enough to do the same.

Except she catches my hand and tugs. Shakes her head when I look, and tilts it towards the door, her ears drooping, a soft breath catching high in her chest.

“There was an…incident, while you were gone.” She says. “Let them sleep.” It’s not an order, not a hint of command, but hushed and achingly sad. I nod, and follow her to the washroom instead.

She washes her face and hands clear of sleep before saying anything else, letting me look around the washroom and come to my own conclusions over what remains. Water in the corners, a pitted, spider-webbed crack in the tiles as wide as my arm is long, towels drip-drying over their pegs, still visibly damp.

A coffee mug from the kitchen, rim chipped, handle cracked, filled to the brim with beads just waiting to be wrapped into Sheik’s hair. All of them murky and dark, ranging from night-sky blue to a deep wine red and every purple in between. Small, but heavy for their size. Warm to the touch, and smooth. Solid, and throbbing with the density of agitated aether.

“How long has your Sh…has Kaya been like that?” She asks, looking up from drying her face on the only towel to survive what I have to assume was a deluge and the cleaning after, hands rasping in the fibers. While I can usually interpret her words based on previous conversations and current context, this time there are simply too many options for me to be certain, and I’m far too tired to try to think laterally.

“Like what?” Having nightmares? Easily startled? So thin he has trouble regulating his own temperature? Exhausted? Intensely accomplished with startlingly accurate and lightning fast spell-casting? Capable of denting both the tile and the reinforced cement beneath it with nothing more than his skin and bones and magic?

Not that I have an answer for any of it. Not a specific one, at least. ‘Ever since we met’ doesn’t serve any useful purpose.

I wash my own face and hands while I wait for clarification. When it doesn’t come, I sigh, and take the time to dry off before wrapping my arms around her again. We can both use the comfort, and it gives me an excuse to stare at the wall so my eyes don’t water too much.

“I don’t know.” I breathe. “Too long.”

“I thought…” She starts. Sighs. “He was awfully jumpy, that first day. I thought it was my fault. That I’d simply startled him. But now…”

“It wasn’t your fault.” I know this. She knows this. Kaya himself has told her this, and he cannot lie.

“Still. I’d like to…take responsibility. Talk to him about it. And I would appreciate your help, if you’re willing.” It’s not a question, but she is asking.

“Always.” I promise, and squeeze my arms around her just a little tighter. I like helping, after all, and – Lady help me – I like them both too much to not give it my best try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up in Modern AU land!  
> For now.
> 
> IRL, however...a specialist appointment earlier this week confirmed that instead of one (expected) surgery, I'm going to need three over the course of a month, so I'm going to try and get at least four chapters ahead so I can post and not worry about taking mid-April to (hopefully) end of May to recover.  
> Thanks in advance for your understanding!


End file.
